The Night of the Grand Old Lady
by Andamogirl
Summary: Story directly following what happened in the 'Wild Wild West Revisited'. Michelito Loveless is back and decides to kill James West and Artemus Gordon – in a creative way of course to avenge his father. Special guest stars, American Knife & Ulysses S. Grant's ghost.
1. Teaser

**THE NIGHT OF THE GRAND OLD LADY**

 **By Andamogirl**

Author's note: lots of references to the first TV movie called "Wild Wild West Revisited" and to the following WWW episodes, "The Night of the Double-Edged Knife" and "The Night of the Flying Pie Plate" & "The Night of the Man-Eating House" & "The Night of Montezuma's Hordes".

References to my story called "The Night of the Cheyenne called White Eagle". You don't need to have read it to understand the story though.

 _Artie: (in South Sea garb) These things are ridiculous._

 _Jim: Artie, it's very colorful._

 _Artie: Blue, that's the color, blue! I'll die of pneumonia!_

 _Jim: If you're going to die, blue's a lovely color._

The Night of the Two-legged Buffalo

 _James:_ _Of course, much of the credit goes to the grand old lady of the Secret Service-Artemis Gordon._

 _Artemus:_ _You're never gonna let me live that down, are you?_

 _James_ _ **:**_ _No, I have no intention of it._

"The Night of the Freebooters".

 _Artie: What did you expect? The major powers of the world to roll over and play dead? All because of threats from some little pipsqueak?_

 _Michelito: Pipsqueak?! Pipsqueak?! Which one of them called me a pipsqueak?_

 _Artie: All of them._

 _Michelito: Ah. I have their monarchs and heads of states in custody, I can wipe out any city with a wave of my hand. Does that sound like the work of a pipsqueak?_

 _Artie: Well, it sounds like the work of a sort of powerful pipsqueak, yeah._

The Wild Wild West Revisited.

WWW

 **TEASER**

 _Washington DC railroad yard, sidetrack_

 _The Wanderer, August 8, 1885_

 _In the evening_

Standing on each side of the table covered with empty dishes and plates, both James West and Artemus Gordon raised their glasses of Champagne.

The older man took a sip and said, "Another mission accomplished, Jim. Correction, one 'last' mission accomplished. We're still alive and intact, and President Cleveland is safely back in the White House – and I'm sure he is the real one, despite your suspicion – and Tsar Nicholas of Russia, Queen Victoria and King Alphonso of Spain are heading home as I speak." He took another sip of the sparkling wine and added, "That was fun, wasn't it? Just like old times. But it was our last assignment – ever."

Smiling Jim nodded. "Amen! And let me compliment you on this wonderful supper, Artie. All the courses were delicious. You haven't lost your touch."

Liking the compliment Artemus lightly bowed his head. "Thank you, it was a pleasure as always." Then he took a new sip and continued, "I'll leave for Chicago tomorrow morning, after breakfast, on board a commercial train, uncomfortable and crowded…" He glanced around him at the sparsely furnished parlor car. "I'm going to miss our old Wanderer again… even if it's the shadow of the luxurious interior we had." He paused feeling nostalgic already and looking at Jim again, he said. "Chicago where the lovely Penelope will join me before she leaves for England, in a week. There's a new theatre in Chicago called 'The Excelsior' and the director is a friend of mine. He promised me I would be the new lead actor for his resident troupe." He smiled broadly. "Penelope is going to stay with me there, during her leave. We need to get to know each other better."

Taking his place back on his chair, Jim said, "Yes that woman is lovely, Artie, and she's dangerous, intelligent and witty…"

Nodding Artie added, "Yes, you're right and she's so attractive with a gun… by the way, I still have her gun. I'll give it to her back as well as her lovely reticule"

Jim took a new sip of Champagne and said, "I think Penelope is absolutely perfect for you! But…"

Surprised, Artie asked, "But what?"

Eyes twinkling with playfulness Jim said, "But Penelope is a lot younger than you, Artemus. You could be her father! Tsk! Tsk! Tsk!"

Rolling his eyes, Artie replied, "Says the man who is married to a beautiful - young - Mexican woman who's the mother of his two children. She doesn't care about that, and I'm pleased to see that a woman can still be attracted to me. That means I don't look sagging, old and decrepit."

Still in playful mode, Jim nodded and then took a sip of Champagne. "Unless she loves men who look sagging, old and decrepit – who knows?" Then he chuckled as Artie gave him a black look. "I was kidding. You're still handsome, Artie, and me too. We still both attract women. For example Carmelita Loveless was attracted a lot to me... She wanted to come with me, you know? But I said no."

Sitting down on his chair Artie said. "Of course you did, you're married."

Circling the rim of his glass with one fingertip, Jim added, "Yes of course, but she didn't know that, I never told her, so I lied to her. I told her I didn't trust her and that I didn't want to end up stabbed in the back. She's a Loveless after all - and I am faithful to Juanita."

Looking at his best friend sternly, Artie said, "I hope so, because you were attracted to her too! I watched you kiss her on that railroad platform and it wasn't the usual goodbye kiss – and it's the least we can say."

Jim smiled. "The second kiss was a goodbye kiss." He raised his glass of bubbling French wine again and then said, "A toast! To beautiful women and to retirement!"

Smiling, Artie said, "Cheers!"

The two men touched their glasses together, the glass ringing - and at the same time the door of the Wanderer opened, revealing the head of the Secret Service.

Robert T. Malone entered, closed the door behind him, smiled like a crocodile eyeing a zebra drinking by the river and said, "I hope you're not celebrating your second retirement?"

Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Jim said, "Yes we are. Why? Do you want us to do another assignment? Our answer is no, Skinny. We won't do another assignment for you. You can go back to your office and forget that we exist."

More aggressive because he was more emotional than Jim, Artie glared at Malone and said, "Never again! Ever! Save your breath, Skinny. We're not interested. We both retired – again. In a few hours Jim will be on his way back to Tecate and me to Chicago. Go away! We don't want to see you anymore."

Unfazed Malone joined the two men and took his place on the comfortable armchair. "Actually, I'm not here to propose another assignment to you – yet, but to give you a direct order."

The two ex-agents exchanged a surprised look which turned to a worried one a second later, and settled their empty glasses on the red tablecloth.

Then looking straight at Malone they both said, in chorus, "Yet? A direct order? What direct order?" and they both anxiously waited for the rest of the story.

Director Malone explained, "After your last exploit, the President was so pleased and so impressed that he asked me to reinstate you as soon as possible in the Secret Service, because he needs men like you at his side, protecting him and the country – and, of course I did it."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Artie said, "No, you didn't."

Malone continued, "Yes I did. Exceptional agents like you are, are very rare, gentlemen. Consider this mission with Loveless Jr. as a trial period to see if you were able to work for the Secret Service again, and the test was conclusive. Frankly I didn't think that 'old, sagging retirees…."

Furrowing his brow, offended, Artie let out, "Old?"

Copying his best friend, offended too Jim said, "Sagging?" Then in response he straightened himself up and lifted his chest.

Malone continued, "I didn't think that you would be able to do what you did. But you proved me wrong. And I'm happy because I need people like you working for me. Jim, Artemus, you're hired! Since this morning, at exactly 0800, you are now officially reinstated as special agents of the US Secret Service gentlemen, and that order is simple, I order you to accept your new job, that's all."

Glaring at Malone Artie planted his fists on his hips. "No way! We're simple citizens, retired, re-ti-red! And no one, not you, not even the President of the United States can force us to do anything."

Malone frowned. "If you don't accept that order, as you are both reserve officers, I will have you send you to prison for insubordination. Then, you will both be transferred to a fort, you at the border with Canada, Mr. West, far away from your partner and away from your family in Mexico and you – as I know that you' love' heat and dust, at the border with Mexico, Mr. Gordon, where you will patrol in the desert between boulders, cacti and rattle snakes… away from your best friend."

Furious, red-faced, Artie let out, "That's… that's unacceptable! We refuse!"

Director Malone looked at Jim waiting in order to know if he agreed with Artemus's response, "Do you agree with your partner Jim?" He asked.

Glancing at Artie Jim replied, "I do." And shared a smile with his best friend. Then he looked back at Malone and added, "You're bluffing."

Malone nodded. " I never bluff. As you wish. Then you will both face the consequences of that regrettable decision. You leave me no other choice."

The head of the Secret Service stood, padded toward the door and opened it, revealing two armed soldiers framing a young cavalry Lieutenant waiting on the rear platform of the train. Looking at Jim and Artie he said, "I knew that you would say that so I came with an escort – for you. Lieutenant Jones, please escort Major West and Major Gordon to Fort Grant and put them in the brig – until I decide to transfer them to their new posts. It could take weeks, months even… I haven't decided, yet. And keep them separated, place them each in a cell. And of course you will watch them closely, they both escaped from prison many times and I don't want them to do that again."

Lieutenant Jones entered the parlor car, followed by the two soldiers and pulled out his gun from his holster. "You can count on me, Sir." Without looking at his man he ordered, "Hartley, give me the handcuffs!" And the blond soldier standing behind him took two pairs of handcuffs from the pocket of his long dark blue coat. He gave them to his officer. "Here Sir."

Sending a panicked look to Jim Artie said, "He's not bluffing Jim!" Then, looking at Malone, he raised his hand and added, "Wait a minute! I don't want to go in prison and I don't want to end up on patrol in the Sonoran desert." He pointed at Jim. "He's the one going in the brig, I'm staying here. I hate to sleep on a bunk, I hate the so-called food that is served in a fort, I hate the desert and the heat, I hate to spend hours on horseback sweating, and I'm too old for all that!" He sighed in resignation. "I accept being an agent of the US Secret Service again Skinny – but it's against my will."

Frowning Jim crossed his arms over his chest, an expression of reprobation on his face. "I'm disappointed in you, Artie. Where is your sense of adventure? It could have been fun!"

Sitting on a chair Artemus replied, "I'm 15 years older than you, Jim, that's explanation enough. Think about your family in Mexico. Do you really want to spend weeks or months in prison and be posted at the border with Canada? And see your wife and your children only during short leaves?" He pointed at the Director of the USSS and added, "Because Skinny here is dead-serious."

Jim glared at Skinny Malone. "Alright Skinny, you win. I accept that order – but I'm not happy! And like Artie said, it's against my will."

Robert 'Skinny' Malone nodded, grinning in victory. "Dulynoted." He turned toward the Cavalry Lieutenant and then said, "Thank you Lieutenant but your presence here is not necessary anymore, you and your men can return to Fort Grant."

The officer saluted, "Yes, Sir."

Once the officer and the soldiers were gone, Artemus moved in front of the Director of the Secret Service and said, "Now we have agreed to work for the Secret Service again, 'Director Malone', Jim and I will need a lot of things. First, we don't want to live and travel throughout the country in an empty train with no comfort. We need our old Wanderer back, meaning the she needs to be completely refurbished, and I will need a lot of things too, like…"

Malone raised a hand, interrupting Artie. "Make a list, give it to me and you'll have anything you want. And that old train will be refurbished like it was before she was decommissioned, I promise you. The President gave me carte blanche." He smiled in victory. "Welcome back to the Secret Service!" He headed toward the door and then added, "You will receive your first assignment soon. Good day gentlemen."

Once the door was closed, Artie stood and moved toward the dresser where a bottle of whiskey and two glasses were sitting. He quoted, "Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more…" He paused and shook his head in defeat. "And I must say goodbye to my new acting career…" He sighed. "I need something stronger than Champagne." Then he poured himself a glass of liquor, downed it in one gulp and said, "I need to send a message to the British embassy. I have to tell Penelope what happened, and she's not going to be happy that I have to cancel our stay to Chicago," he said.

WWW

 _Two days later,_

 _In the morning_

The parlor car was full of boxes, crates and trunks of various sizes with many colored rolls of cloth piled on the two couches when Jim entered the newly refurbished room.

Surprised to see all these stacks of material from the ground to the ceiling, he lifted an eyebrow. "Artie? You here buddy?" he called.

He spotted a raised hand waving and the burgundy wrist of Artie's thick robe above a pile of crates. "I'm over here Jim. Be careful will you? Some of the things stored here are very fragile. You should be able to sneak through," Artemus said.

Looking around him – pleased to see that the Wanderer looked like the 'old time' one - Jim cautiously headed toward his partner and joined him.

Standing beside Artemus, Jim saw that his best friend was examining his brand new sewing machine. Artie's eyes were twinkling with excitement, he noticed and he chuckled softly.

Caressing the device with his fingertips, the older man said, "It's the latest model released. Look at it Jim! It's a thing of beauty, don't you think? With that wonderful machine I'm going to be able to create all the costumes I need for my disguises faster and better than I did before." He gestured to the cloth rolls piled on the couches nearby and he continued ecstatically. "And I have everything I need. All types of fabric, of any color. I've got pelts too and hats and wigs and lots of make up; and for my future dresses – because I only got two dresses, the green one and the red one. I've got shining ribbons, exotic feathers, precious laces, all different kind of ornamented buttons, and tights, and so on. Well eve-ry-thing! Oh! And my lab was completely transformed to be more efficient and refurbished too. I have got a brand new microscope, the best that exists, and new chemicals sets, that's great" Noticing that his partner had a derisive smile on his lips, he frowned feeling a little hurt noticing that Jim wasn't sharing his enthusiasm. "What?"

Jim chuckled. "You look like a kid in a toys store after his rich parents bought it for his birthday." He patted Artie's shoulder soothingly. "I know that you and I are back in the Secret Service again and that you need what's necessary for our future missions, but did you need all that stuff? You can do wonders with almost nothing at your disposal. Remember that saloon-y dress you made with that tablecloth?"

Frowning in worry Artie asked, "You aren't going senile are you? Don't you remember? I didn't make that saloon-y dress with the table cloth, because it's on the table! I bought everything, the corset, the tights, the dress, the wig, the boa, the shoes – in a clothing and beauty store before going to that saloon in Wagon Gap. I had barely enough time to prepare myself before going there, waiting for you."

Jim ignored the question, and said, "I love the blond wig, and by the way I forgot to tell you that you looked lovely in that dress."

Frowning, a bit vexed that his partner had waited so long to tell him this, Artemus huffed. "Nadia told me that I looked lovely in a dress before you did."

Jim nodded. "I know that, I was there. I didn't tell you that before, because you were wearing that green dress I found positively ugly – but you looked lovely in the red one. I loved the white and red feathers boa too… and the black, semi-transparent tights. If you hadn't beckoned me with a fan to tell me that it was you, sitting at this table among the saloon girls, I would have asked you to have a drink with me …"

Smiling with pleasure Artie said, "Thank you, Jim, I appreciate the compliment – even if it's an awful lie. Instead of me, you would have chosen a lovely, young girl; not an old one hiding her wrinkles behind a lot of makeup." He gestured to the crates and trunks surrounding Jim and him. "I gave a long list to Skinny Malone and got everything, and the President offered all this to thank us, like boxes of finest liquors and finest cigars and the latest guns and rifles and enough ammunition to hold a siege for years. They're piled over there next to the door of the galley, I think. But I'm sure you're going to find them."

Now excited, Jim opened one of the wooden boxes settled behind Artie and inside found a collection of Colt revolvers and Smith a Wesson models. He took out a brand new .41 Colt, and smiled. "Ah! Look at this! That's a thing of beauty, Artie."

Looking at his shiny sewing machine again Artemus said, "For you perhaps. You know me, I don't like violence. I use it only in case of extreme necessity." He frowned and asked, "Where were you this morning? You left at dawn before I got up."

Sidestepping the question, Jim said, "You get up too late, Artemus, you've always gotten up too late. Men of action always get up early. How did you do rehearsals with a performance at noon when waking up in the middle of the morning?"

Unfazed Artie replied, "Are you trying to annoy me so that I forget my question? It won't work, you know. And I am a man of action too, I think I have amply demonstrated it during all these years at your side. And I need more sleep than you, that's all; no one has the same metabolism. Some people need more sleep than others. For example I need 8 hours of sleep and you only five. And I didn't need to do rehearsals because I've known all the Shakespeare plays by heart for years. Now tell me what did you do Jim? What are you hiding?" He asked, starting to get a little suspicious.

Embarrassed Jim responded, "I visited President Grant's grave… I wanted to talk to him, tell him that we came out of retirement and returned to active duty, and lots of other things… like my marriage, my children, my simple life at my ranch in Tecate…"

Furious, Artie said, "What? You went there without me? We always went to see him 'together' there since we told him goodbye 'together' on his deathbed."

Jim sighed. "I knew that you would be mad at me."

Crossing his arms angrily over his chest, Artie replied, "You're damn right, I'm mad at you! You should have told me about it! I would have come with you!"

Feeling bad, Jim said, "I had the idea this morning after I woke up. I dreamed about the President last night you know? He was here, sitting on a stool beside my bed, smoking his cigar, listening to me… I told him what happened with Loveless Jr. Then after being silent for a long time, he told me that we would see each other again soon, and then he vanished…. And I woke up. What's strange, is that all the time he was there, I was cold, no freezing."

Now worried, Artie asked, "Soon? Did he mean that you'll see him again in a dream or that you'll see him again in the afterlife?"

Smiling, Jim said, "It was just a dream, Artie, nothing else… But something even more strange happened. You're not going to believe it but when I woke up, I could smell his cigar… I suppose it was my imagination working as I always associated Grant with the strong smell of his ever present-cigars…" And he frowned when he noticed that his best friend looked confused. "What?"

His brow furrowed in confusion, Artie said, "To stay in the strange register, I would have sworn smelling the smell of his cigar after I woke up… and I was cold too in my bed… and what's even more strange is that I felt a… let's call it a 'presence' at my side, but when I opened my eyes, but when I looked around me, I was alone in my compartment."

Frowning in his turn, intrigued, "A presence? Do you think that Grant's ghost visited us?"

Nodding Arte responded, "Yes, or we both dreamed about Grant last night and both smelled an imaginary cigar smoke. You remember your dream, I don't."

Jim rubbed his chin pensively. "Hmm… I bet on the first hypothesis."

The older man nodded. "Ghosts exist… we met one, remember Jim? Caroline Day. She and her house had merged to form a lone, powerful entity. She almost killed me with that blue crystal chandelier. Maybe he misses us like we miss him and he came to say hello… it means that you weren't dreaming about him last night, his ghost was there… He came to talk to you and came to see me, as I can remember the smell of his cigar, but didn't talk to me…"

Jumping on this to end that conversation Jim said, "He didn't because you were sleeping, Artie, and I wasn't. He didn't want to disturb you, I didn't want to disturb you either when I decided to visit his grave. I let you sleep." And In order to appease his irate companion, he added, "Everyone knows that the elderly need a lot of sleep," then he grinned playfully.

The telegraph key suddenly clicked to life making them both look for the telegraph box – hidden somewhere. Jim was the first to find it.

He took his place behind the work table between two crates of different kind of hats and signaled he was ready to receive the message

A few seconds later the device rattled. "It's a new assignment, Artie," he said translating the Morse code gradually. "Rendez-vous in New Orleans… Large sums of counterfeited money… are circulating in the city… Find and arrest members of the counterfeiting ring or rings… Possible location of their hideouts… A suspect French lingerie shop… called 'Le Ruban Rouge'… Armed guards in the front… for supposedly preventing men from entering the shop… but mostly lawmen. Good luck…Signed Colonel Robert T. Malone, Director of the Secret Service."

Puzzled, Artie asked, "Why don't the local agents work on that? They are on site, not us. Plus they are certainly younger than us."

Shrugging, Jim replied, "I don't know. Maybe they are not as seasoned as us in that kind of mission. We had lots of them in the past and Skinny wants the best on this mission." He confirmed having received the message, closed the telegraph box and then looked up at Artemus with a wicked smile on his lips. He said, "Well, Artie, as no man is usually allowed in that kind of 'lingerie' shop - because it's a lingerie shop - it will be a good occasion for you to carry out some recon undercover wearing a nice dress, made with the help of your new sewing machine, before we take some action."

Frowning in worry Artie nodded. "And I'll be alone inside that shop for reconnaissance without you at my side to help me in case things turn out badly for me? It's probably a nest of dangerous people, Let me tell you that I'm not thrilled at that prospect."

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, Jim asked, "Since when do you have cold feet? Where is gone the fearless and intrepid Artemus Gordon?" Then he lowered his hand toward his gun. "Maybe you're not the real Artemus Gordon, but his doppelganger created by Loveless Jr. and that's why you're reacting this way." He pulled out his Colt from his holster and pointed it at the other man. "Where is Artemus Gordon?"

Rolling his eyes, Artie said, "Right in front of you. You want proof? Only you and I know where I lost my old monogrammed Colt. I never wrote it the post-mission report and we never told that story to anyone. It was at the border with Canada…"

Jim nodded and put his gun back in place. "A bullet grazed your temple, you lost consciousness and dropped it in the muddy and flooded river. The bandits escaped and you spent two hours trying to find it. In vain – while bleeding out and freezing. After that, you passed out in my arms."

Protecting his precious sewing machine with its cover, Artie replied, "See? I'm the real Artemus Gordon, and now I know that you're the real Jim West." He sighed and then added, "You are the intrepid one, Jim, not me. I have always been the most cautious of our duet."

Taking the most recent model of Winchester out from its box, Jim said, "Says the man who adored throwing himself into the lion's den during his reconnaissance missions." He patted Artie's arm in reassurance. "Don't worry, they won't harm you in that lingerie shop, buddy – they may criticize your dress and your hair, but that's all." Then he chuckled mockingly.

Not amused, Artie said, "You forgot that women can be dangerous counterfeiters, Jim. As you know it happened before. And as women are a lot more perceptive than men, they could suspect that I 'm wearing a disguise, remove my wig by surprise or force me to and then kill me thinking that I'm a lawman."

Jim sat on a crate. "Don't worry Artie, I'll be there if you need me, on the other side of the street. You'll just have to call me. A few armed guards are no match for me. They never were, remember? Besides, you can defend yourself, even wearing a dress and a wig, you did it before." He noticed his best friend's face grew somber, saw Artie lower his eyes and finding his hands suddenly very interesting.

Silent pause.

Something was clearly disturbing Artie Jim realized. "Okay, what is it?"

Looking at Jim again, ill at ease, Artemus said, "I don't know if I'm still capable of fighting Jim, to defend myself or to defend you. My physical strength is not what it used to be… first because of my age and because too, as an actor I didn't have to do much exercise… thus I'm badly out of shape."

Jim nodded. "I know what you're thinking about. No one could fight against Alan and Sonya, they had superhuman strength… No one could stop them. Well, a bomb did."

Embarrassed Artie shook his head, "I know, and I'm not talking about that Jim… I'm not a strong man anymore, Jim. I'm 55 now, and heading for old age, slowly but surely. I don't know if I will be able to accomplish this mission and others."

Sitting beside the other man Jim patted Artie's shoulder soothingly. "You will. Don't worry Artie, I can't do anything to change your ripe old age, but I can bring you back to top physical condition. I'm going to put you on a strict training regimen, and after a few days, you'll be back in tip top shape. You will be able to fight like you did in the old times… You were pretty good, Artie."

The older agent grimaced in worry. "Okay, thank you, but be gentle with me alright Jim? Don't forget that I'm much older than you."

Smiling Jim looked around him, "Okay, old timer, let's start your training with transporting all these boxes, crates and trunks to where they belong. You can begin by carrying the guns and the revolvers to my compartment. You do the job, I'll watch to see if you're doing things correctly."

WWW

 _The next morning, at dawn,_

 _Enroute to New Orleans_

It was 6 AM. Artemus was snoring into his pillow, lying sound asleep in his bed when Jim knocked loudly at the door. "Artie, wake up!" He called.

He entered his best friend's sleeping compartment a few seconds later. "Rise and shine, Artie!" he said shaking the other man's shoulder before opening the blinds to let the sun flood the room with its light. "Come on! Wake up buddy! Your training starts in 30 minutes, tops. So you have 30 minutes before that to prepare yourself and to take your breakfast, and I prepared something special for you, it's a healthy, with less fat, because you are a little soft in the middle and you have some weight to lose."

Artie briefly opened one eye and groaned, "Go to hell." Then he rolled onto his other side, facing the wooden bulkhead and not Jim.

Smiling wickedly Jim took the pitcher filled with water sitting on the dresser next to him. "I'm doing this for your own good buddy. Do you want be able to be fight again like you did before? If you do, be a good boy and follow my instructions."

No response, no movement.

He poured the cold water on his best friend's head, all at once, eliciting a yelp and a string of curses from Artie who sat up on his bed.

He giggled. "Oh, I really like to do that, it's funny." He placed the empty pitcher back in place and added, "25 minutes left Artie, and stay in your underwear, you're going to sweat, a lot," then he left the room, heading toward the parlor car.

WWW

His wet dark curls plastered against his head by the real shower he had taken – Artie, wearing only his short black underwear as instructed - spent 20 minutes sitting at the table of the parlor car glaring in silence at Jim who was sitting in front of him reading the Washington Herald – the other man not paying attention at him – eating what his partner had prepared for him. Jim had composed his breakfast of a large bowl of cottage cheese, with no fresh cream, no sugar and no jam in it, a slice of ham on top of a single slice of burned toast – and an apple. Then he drank one cup of what Jim called coffee, black, with no sugar of course and no brandy mixed in it.

Once the light breakfast was over, Artie, still hungry and not caffeinated enough for the morning and still glaring at Jim too, asked, "And now what? You want me to run behind the train for hours like you did the last time?" He narrowed his eyes, suddenly realizing something. "Oh I'm sure you'd love that, right? It's payback for training you hard before the Loveless Junior's case."

Jim said shook his head, "You're imagining things, Artie. I'm doing this to help you – it's the only reason, believe me. But if you don't want to train with me, it's up to you. I'm not forcing you to do that."

His shoulders slouching, Artemus softened. "No, it's okay. I really need to be in top shape now that I'm a special agent again - whatever it costs me it will save me from being hurt or killed."

Jim nodded. "Exactly." He folded the newspaper and said, "You won't run behind the Wanderer like I did because it would kill you – your heart would stop after a few miles. No, let's start with something easy, a dozen pushups, for example, and then I'll give you my jumping rope. You'll use it for 30 minutes. Then I will grant you a 20 minute break before starting the whole thing again. Are you okay with that?"

Artie nodded in resignation, "I agree. Alright, you won't hear any complaint coming from me. I'll do it. But if I die, I'll come to haunt you till your death."

Smiling, Jim stood and pointed at the carpeted floor at his feet. "Come here and get down Artemus, you're going to do a series of 10 pushups. And you're not going to die. You mom and Harry will kill me and I want to stay alive. Come on!" Artemus complied lowering himself down until his elbows bent to a squared angle then he pushed himself up. "One… two…" three…You're doing great!' He encouraged. "Come on! Up…and down…and up…and down… four… five…"

Beads of sweat rolling down his face, Artemus suddenly collapsed on the carpeted floor, out of breath. "Let's start from the beginning, Artie. If you don't finish a complete series of 12 pushups, you'll have to start from zero. One…"

And Artie re-started thrusting himself up again.

Tbc.


	2. Act One

**THE NIGHT OF THE GRAND OLD LADY**

 **By Andamogirl**

WWW

 **ACT ONE**

 _Evening_

Half-sitting, half-lying on the couch, his feet propped up on the arm, a book resting on his lap, Artemus worriedly eyed the punching bag that Jim had just hung with a hook to one of the metallic beams on the ceiling. "Jim, if you think that I'm going to punch that sandbag, you're mistaken. I can barely move my arm. My whole body is aching like I had run a marathon, no two marathons in a row and arrived last. Even my hair hurts. Find something else please."

Smiling, Jim sat beside his best friend. "You need this, it's good for you. After that, your training will be over – for today. Now give me your hands." And he pulled out two rolls of handwrap from the bag he was holding, before settling it at his feet.

Sighing in resignation, Artie complied and watched the younger man wrap layers of thick fabric around his hands to protect them from the future blows. "Hurting my hands is a bad idea you know? I've got a dress to design and then to make."

Smiling, Jim pulled out a pair of gloves from his bag. "I know that Artie. I wasn't going to let you hit that sandbag bare-knuckle. That's why I wrapped your hands in fabric and that's why I'm going to protect them even more with gloves." Then he put the gloves on - which resembled a bloated pair of mittens – and laced them around his best friend's wrists.

He pulled Artie up then moved him toward the sandbag. "I want you to hit it with all your strength. Let's start with a first series of ten right jabs. Think about… that man in Kansas City who fired you, it's going to give you incentive… By the way, I don't regret having punched him. He deserved it. You are a great actor, Artie, he didn't know how to appreciate your talent, that's all."

Smiling, Artie jabbed at the sandbag once. It barely moved. "Thank you."

Taking his place on a chair beside his companion Jim asked, "Artie, do you remember what happened between us, before we parted? I mean, after we retired? I told Hugo when he came to see me in my house in Tecate that I was mad at you and because of that I didn't know if I wanted to work with you again – but I can't remember what happened between us."

Freezing his gloved hands half-way from the sandbag in surprise, Artie asked, "You're mad at me?"

Jim shook his head. "No, not anymore, of course. But I'd like to know why I was mad at you. Do you remember what happened?"

Shaking his head, Artie said, "No, I don't. But it shouldn't have happened in the first place… How did we get here? We are like brothers, no, in fact we are blood brothers. We never quarreled, never fought against each other, we never said anything bad to each other… " He frowned and embarrassed asked. "It's not about me not showing up to your wedding, right?"

Jim stood and held the sandbag. "Let's try the right hook now." And he watched Artemus punch the sandbag once. It barely moved. He responded, "No, you told me at the time that your mother was very sick – and that Harry told you she could die, so you stayed at her side… I understood that, like I understood why you didn't show up to the christening of Jesus and Rufina in Tecate."

Lowering his hurting right hand, Artie said, "I'm the godfather of your children and I never showed up to their christening… I still feel so bad, same thing for not attending your wedding."

Placing a soothing hand on Artie's shoulder Jim said, "Don't be. It would have been impossible for you to come to Mexico with a broken leg."

Hitting the sandbag again, Artemus said, "I was unlucky. The horse salesman told me that his mare was calm and docile ... but as soon as I climbed into the saddle, she started to leap, rear and kick out like a rodeo horse and she threw me to the ground ... and my left leg broke on impact. Next time I need a new horse, I will let American Knife chose one for me, like he did with Mo."

Pressing Artemus's shoulder with affection, Jim said, "I should have known you would have an impediment, and that you wouldn't be able to come. You're a magnet for trouble. By the way now that we are back in the Secret Service we need to buy new horses – and take back those ones we rented from the livery stable. I'm going to buy a black stallion and call him 'Blackjack' like my first 'Blackjack'"

Smiling, Artie said, "I will keep my rented horse until I find a Cheyenne horse to replace Mo'éhno'ha Ȯhtameōhtsėstse. I miss Mo but he's too old to be my mount now. But each time I go to my mom's home I saddle him and I go for a walk with him along the Mississippi. He loves that. I'd like to do that with his buddy Blackjack 'one', but that horse never let anyone else ride him but you and he hasn't changed. They are happy there, together, they have space to gallop, a river to quench their thirst, big trees to protect them from the sun, greasy grass to graze and even a lot of horse buddies – and Licorice the pony that President Grant offered to the 5 year old boy me and they have nice stables too. They are enjoying a well-deserved retirement – unlike us!" Then he grimaced.

Patting the sandbag, Jim said, "Alright, we talk – and we talk, but I have to train you. Let's start a new round of punches."

Artie jabbed at the bag again putting more strength into it and the bag moved.

Punch, punch, punch…

WWW

 _A week later, New Orleans railroad station yard_

 _At sunset_

Smiling, Artemus looked at his reflection in the mirror of his sleeping compartment, proud of himself. His red and black dress, adorned with white lace and ribbons was absolutely perfect; not too severe but not too fancy either. Exactly what an old lady would wear. His silver haired wig and his light make-up were perfect too.

He could barely recognize himself. "You look gorgeous, Artemis," he said to his disguised reflection before laughing softly. He wrapped a black silk scarf around his neck to hide his Adam's apple and said, "Artie, old boy, you're the best!"

He left his private compartment and then headed toward the parlor car where Jim was waiting for him. Once in front of the other man he slowly pivoted so Jim could observe him, then asked. "What do you think? Do I look like a lady Jim?"

Jim walked around Artie while rubbing his chin pensively. "Well, the dress is beautiful Artie, but… you know I like dresses off the shoulders and with more _décolleté_."

Artemus rolled his eyes while remembering that Jim had told him the same thing when he was wearing his green dress before they had been stopped by the Russians and met Nadia. "Off the shoulders? More décolleté? What's the matter with you Jim? That's an obsession! My shoulders are too broad and covered with scars to be shown if I want to impersonate a woman and I still don't have anything to show." He touched his fake – but quite realistic breast. "It's filled with cotton balls and it's all flat underneath. And I'm an old lady, Jim, not a saloon girl. I can't wear this kind of dress. Now tell me if you see anything wrong."

Jim grinned, "Everything's fine Madame the Grand Old Lady of the Secret Service, you're absolutely per-fect." He sniffed his best friend's neck. "You even put on a little perfume… Mmm. Violet perfume, nice, and appropriate for an old lady." He took a step back. "The advantage of that kind of disguise is that you can hide lots of weapons in it without even a bulge. Where's your gun?"

Artie pulled up the right side of his dress and petticoat, revealing his hairless legs covered with black semi-transparent stocks and dark brown shiny boots and pointed at the .32 Smith & Wesson strapped to his calf with a large garter. "It's here."

Impressed Jim nodded in appreciation. "Good. It's not too big and not too small. Ideal to be hidden there. You chose it well." He chuckled. "Nice legs, a bit muscular for a woman, but your dress will hide them, and I love your boots, they are very… womanly. Tell me, Artemus, how do you manage to get your feet and ankles into those boots?"

Glancing down at his boots, Artemus replied, "A bootmaker made them in my size, but I told him they were a gift for my twin sister who has big feet." he chuckled at that lie and lifted his gloved right hand. "And gloves are hiding my masculine hands."

Smiling Jim asked, "After your fake twin brother, Adolphus, now you have a fake twin sister too? Let me guess, her name is Artemis. I think you regret being an only child buddy."

Looking straight in Jim's eyes, Artie smiled warmly and said, "I'm not, I have a brother – and a real one. His name is James West."

Smiling in response, Jim said, "Yes, I have one too, his name is Artemus Gordon – and correction, you have two brothers, American Knife and me."

Feeling guilty, Artie said, "That's true. Dear God Jim! I haven't seen American Knife and the Cheyenne of my band for years. After this mission is complete, I will visit them."

Jim smiled. "We will, buddy. I'd like to see them again too." He paused and asked, "Got any smoke bombs and knock out gas bombs, Artie?"

Flipping over his large satin belt Artemus showed them to his partner. "I have10 colored balls. Each of them are placed in an individual small pocket. "The blue ones are the smoke bombs, the red ones the knock-out gas bombs. I think it's enough for a reconnaissance mission."

Reassured to know that Artemus had weaponized his disguise and could defend himself, in case he had to do it, and he sincerely hoped he wouldn't have to do it, the younger man said. "What about your voice? Women aren't exactly baritones."

Artie smiled. "That's not a problem, I can do anything with my voice," he said progressively raising his voice a few octaves. "And now? How does my voice sound?"

Impressed Jim patted his best friend's shoulder in appreciation,. "Perfect. By the way what is your name just in case someone asks?"

Artemus played pensively with one of his silver locks. "Well… What about Artemis McAllister, from Kansas City. How does it sound?"

Jim smiled. "I like it. Don't forget Artie, it's just a reconnaissance mission, nothing else. Try to be as natural as possible and it will be alright. I will be on the other side of the street, hiding in darkness, ready to help you in case you need me."

Artemus reached out his hand. "To be as natural as possible I will need money to buy things in that shop – just looking at all the things would be suspect. Besides, I'd like to make a new waistcoat for myself… I mean for my husband. He's the one who has money." Then he winked at his partner playfully and reached out an opened hand.

Rolling his eyes Jim sighed.

WWW

Shortly after holding a purse filled with some of Jim's banknotes, Mrs. Artemis McAllister left the Wanderer stationed in the railroad yard, away from the station to stay discreet. Night had fallen and a full moon was shining in the cloudless sky.

But unfortunately, a man hidden in a dark recess behind a pile of wood saw the disguised agent leave and followed him discreetly.

His mind entirely focused on his undercover mission and to pass for an old lady while in the main street, Artie didn't notice anything at all.

Jim West left the train a few minutes later and no one followed him

WWW

 _Later in 'Le Ruban Rouge'_

Mrs. Artemis McAllister silently sighed in relief when one of the two guards posted at the door opened it for her, touching the brim of his hat with politeness.

Artie had an inner proud smile. His disguise worked just fine.

He moved toward the first showcases located to his right and knew why the shop was off limits to the male gender. It sold the finest French undergarments: corsets, petticoats, shirts, pantaloons, girdles, etc. and sleepwear, nightgown and negligee, all of them made in silk, satin and chiffon, with embroidery and lace decoration.

Feeling ill at ease in that women's intimate world, trying not to blush, he looked around, circulating among the female customers who were chatting with the saleswomen, moving from one showcase to another surveying the shop from the corner of his eye. There was one female guard posted next to the door, sitting on a chair pretending to read a fashion magazine, but she was watching the clientele. She had a handbag sitting at her feet and the fabric was stretched around a familiar form, a revolver.

It was an observation post.

There were two doors behind the counter and a staircase on the left leading upstairs and there was one door there, he noticed.

He padded toward the main counter, feigning interest in the colored stockings and garters displayed in a showcase and, behind the counter, he spotted a trapdoor on the floor leading to a cellar… and coming from that place he could hear a faint and muffled familiar noise that he would recognize among one thousand: people down there were using a bank note press.

He had another inner smile pleased to know that he had found where the counterfeiters were operating from here at Le Ruban Rouge shop. Suspicions about the location of the place where the Ring of Counterfeiters operated were now verified. 'I'll come back here tonight with Jim and the Secret Service local agents and the police. Good job! Let's go! Reconnaissance is over,' he thought.

Feeling relieved that everything went just fine - he was ready to leave the French lingerie shop when a blond saleswoman placed her hand on his arm. "Are you looking for something specific, madam? How can I help you?" she asked with a warm smile.

Using his best soprano voice Artemus replied, "No, nothing specific, I was just looking at these lovely articles of lingerie you have in your shop…"

The blond woman's smile suddenly vanished, and before Artie realized that something was wrong, she pulled out a Derringer from her left sleeve.

She pointed the small gun at Artemus. "Now raise your hands and don't make any ill-advised moves or I shoot you right where you are," she said menacingly.

The Special Agent took an involuntarily step back and sucked in a (real) surprised breath. "Dear God! I-I don't understand… Why are you pointing a gun at me, miss? I didn't steal anything. I'm not a thief." He noticed that all the women present in the shop – fake customers - as well as the saleswomen - fake too- had encircled him. All of them had Derringers in their hands. 'Oh boy! I knew it! I knew something bad would happen to me. Call it premonition', he mused. Still in his role, he added, "This is not how you will attract customers, you know? Or is it to force me to buy something? Forced sale is not the solution to sell more..." He suddenly heard a very recognizable nasal laugh, closed his eyes for a split second with a "sigh followed with 'Oh no!' And then looked up upstairs… "It was a trap," he said using his baritone voice.

Michelito Loveless was standing there, upstairs, leaning against the rail, bouncing with glee. "Yes it was. Welcome to my very elaborate set up Mr. Gordon." Then he smiled proud of himself. "Got you!"

Feeling like a helpless mouse surrounded by hungry cats, Artemus took another involuntarily step backward and bumped against the female guard who had left her post next to the door.

In a flash the woman dropped the fashion magazine she was holding to the floor and pulled out the revolver she kept in her handbag.

Artemus turned around and he let out a yelp of both surprise and pain when the butt of the.45 Colt she was gripping crashed on his nose, breaking it, splitting his lips as well.

Groaning, Artemus dropped like a lead weight on all fours to the floor seeing stars in front of his eyes, bile welling up in his throat and warm blood filling his mouth.

Blood was dripping down his chin too and onto his neck. He smeared the blood on his face with the back of his hand, moved to his knees and raised his hands above his head.

Loveless commanded, "Cross your arms above your head, Mr. Gordon! I want to see your hands. I know that you are a very skilled man with your hands, like a magician."

Artie complied and sucked his burning lips into his mouth, quick-licking, and tasting his own blood, then he spat some blood and saliva across the floor – right on top of Loveless's shoes– making the short man recoil, grimacing in disgust.

The door suddenly opened and the two men who were posted outside entered the shop and one of them put the 'closed" sign up as the other one pulled down the blinds behind the barred door.

But they left it open.

Loveless Jr. smiled and tsked-tsked. "Now, now Mr. Gordon, be a god boy and stay calm. "Your partner shouldn't be long now. Amanda? Pull the trigger, please, we need to attract Mr. West here."

Immediately the woman with the big gun – Amanda – pointed it at the ceiling and fired, creating a hole in a white painted beam.

Loveless went down the stairs and joined the Secret Service agent.

He looked at Artemus from head to toe and then said, "It's a remarkable disguise Mr. Gordon, my sincere compliments. But I didn't expect any less from you, the master of disguise, the man of many faces." He clapped his hands. "Bravo!"

By now Artie's entire face ached.

Loveless grabbed a handful of silver hair and pulled off the wig off Artemus's hair, slickened and plastered to his skull with brilliantine.

He chuckled, "I have just scalped you!"

WWW

 _Earlier in the street:_

Jim West was posted on other side of the street, standing in the shadows of a dark alley separating two houses, when he saw the two guards flanking the barred door of Le Ruban Rouge enter the lingerie shop. One of them put the 'closed' sign up and the other one pulled down the blinds behind the barred door.

He frowned in both surprise and worry. 'Closed?' But Artie was still inside… Something was definitively wrong, he thought.

His blood froze in his veins when he heard a sudden gunshot. "Artie!" he let out.

He pulled out his gun from his holster and crossed the street at top speed, sprinting toward the lingerie shop. He opened the door of 'Le'Ruban Rouge' a few seconds later.

WWW

Holding his gun, fingertip on the trigger, ready to fire, Jim entered the shop and stopped dead in his tracks as he discovered the alarming scene in front of him.

Michelito Loveless was standing in the middle of the room, his arms crossed on his chest, grinning like the mad man he was.

Artemus wigless, was on his knees, arms raised and crossed above his head. He was pale, a light film of perspiration covering his blood-smeared face and his nose and split lips bled sluggishly. His chin and neck were covered with darkened and drying blood.

His partner was framed by two women holding a small gun against each of his temples, at point blank range. Another woman was pointing a Colt at the back of his head.

His face like stone, Jim pointed his revolver at the short, blond man. "It's not a pleasure to see you again," he said coldly, then he asked Artie, "You all right?"

Nodding, Artemus replied, his voice sounding all nasally, "Not really, no. It was a trap Jim, as you can see. We should have been more wary. We fell for it hook, line and sinker!"

Looking up at Jim, Loveless Jr. said, "Drop your gun Mr. West and stand on the opposite side of the room or you soon will have to find another partner."

Jim complied immediately and the two guards standing on each side of the door moved to seize him. Pressing on the other man's shoulders they brought him to his knees.

Keeping his cool, Jim asked his new Nemesis, "I wonder if you are 'Loveless the original' or one of one of the 5 copies of himself which he created."

Michelito Loveless pointed at his own chest. "I'm the original, and those copies never existed. I wanted to keep the Secret Service occupied chasing non-existent other me's throughout the country. As you can see I managed to escape that formidable explosion, protected in the indestructible bunker I had built deep underground. But there was only room for me. Alan and Sonya, my $600 people were killed. But one day I will conquer the world with an army of human beings with superhuman strength."

Unfazed Jim said, "Then you will need to find a lot of quadruple amputees and a lot of money and a lot of time to provide them mechanical limbs. Maybe it's why you're counterfeiting money?"

Michelito Loveless shook his head, "No, I won't. I'm the richest man in the world. I don't need counterfeited money. Counterfeiting money on a large scale was to lure you here. And I posted armed guards outside so that this place looks suspicious in the eyes of the local USSS agents investigating the case. They reported it to their superiors, and those superiors told this to Malone. I was sure that Director Malone would send his best agents – the two of you - here to investigate thoroughly, and he did. I knew that Mr. Gordon would come here first, on a scouting expedition, it is how you always proceed. That's why I was waiting for him, or rather her, as I knew Mr. Gordon would be disguised as a woman, as this shop only admits women…"

Curious, Artie asked, "How did you know it was me?"

Loveless replied, "Simple. One of my men, Grover, was watching your train, and when he saw you leaving the Wanderer, he followed you here. When he told me that a woman dressed in red and black had left the Wanderer and was in the shop, I knew it was you, Mr. Gordon."

Looking at the short man, Jim said, "A friend could have visited us."

Loveless shook his head. "Impossible. My man was posted at the station since your arrival. No woman went on board your train."

Still curious, Artie asked, "I'm curious, did this shop exist before you used it as a trap, or did or did you create it from scratch?"

Loveless smiled. "It existed before, and the owner is dead – he had an unfortunate accident after he refused to lend his shop to me. I chose this place because I thought it would be fun to see you come here disguised as a woman, Mr. Gordon, and it was."

Glaring at the short man Artie deadpanned, "I'm thrilled to have entertained you."

Loveless Jr. rubbed his hands in anticipation. "I have planned something very special for you gentlemen, a very creative death. My father would be so proud of me if he was still alive." He paused and said, "I suppose you are carrying a little arsenal in your clothes Mr. Gordon, I suggest you undress, slowly. Take off your shoes too because they could hide a weapon, or a bomb ... No tricks, or Mr. West will be seriously injured. I don't need him to be in one piece for what I have planned to do with him."

Artie stood wincing all the way up and then complied. He started to take his clothes off, one at a time, blushing, embarrassed to do so framed by three lovely young women – but he rapidly didn't care as he noticed that they were totally uninterested by his not-Greek-god-like body. 'I'm a sagging old man,' he thought sadly. But he remembered Penelope's smile and her kisses and he felt instantly better. She didn't think he was old, just older than her, and she didn't mind if he didn't look like a Greek god.

He finally dropped his hidden gun on the floor next to his boots. "Happy now?" He asked, wearing only is black, short and tight-fitting manly underwear and… his stockings and garters.

Loveless sniggered. "You look ridiculous."

Raising his blood-covered chin proudly, blood dripping steadily from his broken nose, Artie replied, "Ridicule doesn't kill."

His eyes cold, the short man said, "But I do, kill – and I will kill you."

Doing his best to keep his calm, Artie suddenly spotted two smoke bombs under the frou-frou bordering his petticoat. They had escaped from the hidden pocket in his belt when he had undressed and had rolled unnoticed there, he thought. 'Artie, old boy, if you want Jim and you to escape from Loveless's clutches and from a certain death, take your chance…' He needed to act fast. He looked at Jim and said, "Like my Great Aunt Maude always said, Artemus my boy you're always full of surprises… and they are not always good." Then he shot a meaningful look at his companion.

Hearing that Jim tensed up a little, readying himself for action. He knew that when Artie talked about his 'great aunt Maude' who didn't exist, his partner was ready to do something – usually something dangerous -to get them out of a predicament.. It was a code between them.

His jaw tightened, Artemus took a step forward and crushed the two small blue balls under the heel of his left foot and suddenly there was a double explosion.

In a flash Jim punched the two men framing him, sending them flying in the air – knocking them more than twelve feet – 'I'm back to my top shape!' he thought as he watched them crumple to the floor. But he was disappointed he hadn't Koed them. 'I need to train more.'

Immediately a growing thick cloud of red smoke started to fill the room.

Michelito Loveless let out a cry of pure rage, then he groaned, "Damn you Gordon! Damn you! Grover! Berkley! Find them! Don't let them escape!" He ordered. Then he cautiously headed toward the back of the lingerie shop, behind the main counter.

The two henchmen stood on wobbly legs and started to fire at the ceiling hoping to scare the two agents, forcing them to surrender.

Using that diversion, Artie escaped from his female 'guardians' pushing them away from him and moved toward the door, seeing nothing but volutes of red smoke around him.

Not seeing a single thing but a curtain of thick, red smoke all around him, Jim cried out, "Artie, let's get out of here!"

He flinched when he heard a thud, followed by a pained, nasal sound, and something metallic with glass crashing to the floor, and he recognized Artie's voice. "Artie!"

His brow furrowed in concern he called, "Artie?" as he vaguely spotted a shadow moving on his left. He grabbed a limb – hoping it belonged to his best friend. "Artie? Is that you? Are you hurt?" He heard a pained grunt then a felt a hand grasp his arm. "Yes, it's me, Jim, the chandelier just crashed on top of my shoulder, ow!", he heard his partner tell him. He sighed in relief. "We'd better get moving!"

The two men somehow managed to find the door, left 'Le Ruban Rouge' in a hurry and then ran into the street to the middle of a few people attracted there by the shot.

In the light of a lamppost; Jim saw a large blood stain which was spreading rapidly on Artemus's right shoulder and spotted the top of a glass shard in the middle of it, embedded in the flesh. He winced in sympathy and said, "Let's find a doctor!"

His face greenish, his head thrown back and applying his fingertips to his bleeding nose, Artie rasped, "I'm going to be okay, find our local agents and the police. Bring them here before it's too late. We need to capture them. Go! I'm heading back to the Wanderer. You'll join me there later."

Frowning, Jim hesitated. "Artie…"

But Artemus was already crossing the street ignoring the people gathered there surprised to see a half-naked man in his underwear – wearing stockings and garters – with a bleeding shoulder, pass in front of them, grimacing in pain.

He mounted his horse.

WWW

 _On the Wanderer, later_

Sitting on the edge of the couch, Artemus bit his lip hard to keep from screaming when his partner, using a clamp removed the blood-covered shard of glass which was embedded in his flesh.

With a cloth soaked in disinfectant Jim dabbed the ragged and deep cut that Artie had on his shoulder, where the chandelier had hit him, deeply bruising his skin there too.

His fists tightening, his breathing hitching Artie closed his eyes, "Ow! Aaargh…That hurts! "he rasped and he gave a whimper of pain.

Sitting on the coffee table in front of his 'patient', Jim said, "I know, and I'm sorry Artie. But I have to do it." And he continued to wipe away the fresh blood from the angry-looking wound, slowly, gently, while cleaning it. "I'm going to need to sew up this cut Artie and then you'll be good as new."

The older man leaned forward, feeling his swelling broken nose pulsating with pain. "I know Jim. Do it." then he took deep, slow breaths, preparing himself for what was to come. He hissed in pain and winced when Jim poured the disinfectant over the inflamed area. It was burning like acid. "Oooh boy! What is that thing? Liquid fire?" He gritted his teeth waiting for the pain to become dull and he added, "I still can't believe they took my disguise when they fled!"

Patting his best friend's arm soothingly Jim said, "I know. One of the women must have found it beautiful and she took it You'll make a new one though, and even more beautiful." He fished a pre-threaded needle out of the medical kit sitting at his side on the coffee table.

He saw Artie's face going gray as he touched the needle to his skin and paused. "Are you ready?" He asked sick to his stomach to hurt his best friend.

Seeing Artie nod, Jim pulled at the skin, forcing it back together and heard Artemus hiss and grunt when he pushed the curved needle through into soft flesh. "It's not going to be long," he said, hearing his partner's breathing begin to be labored. He felt his shoulder tense with pain under his fingertips. "I'm sorry," he said as gasps of pain escaped Artemus's split lips.

His face clammy and now colorless, Artie said, "It's okay." His head dropped and his fingers curled over the edges of the couch, gripping it each time Jim made a new loop of thread – and whimpering in pain. "It's too bad they managed… to escape."

The younger man nodded. "By the time I went back there – 10 minutes top - with the police and the local agents of the Secret Service they were gone. But they left the printing press, the paper, the ink and all the counterfeited money in the cellar. They are now locked in the MINT."

It took a couple of minutes for Jim to sew his best friend's wound shut as tears were streaming down Artemus's pale cheeks. "It's over and it will probably scar." Then he wiped away some fresh blood that leaked out from the row of stitches, and, when the stitched shoulder was clean and dry, he wrapped it in a clean bandage. "There, all patched up."

Relieved that the stitching was over Artie said, "Thank you. You're a great nurse, Jim."

Observing Artie's broken nose, he added, "I've had a lot of practice with you in the past. Now I'm going to clean your face, Artie." Then, using a new cloth and sterile water, he gently wiped the dried blood away from his partner's swollen face making him wince as he touched his broken nose and split lips. Once that was done, he said, "Now I'm going to reset your nose and this is going to hurt – a lot. Ready?"

Shaking his head, Artie said, "No, I'm not."

Placing his thumbs against the bridge of Artemus's broken nose, Jim instructed, "Take a deep breath and count to three…"

Complying Artemus said, "One, two, three… " and froze when he felt Jim slowly drag his thumbs down the protuberance while pushing down in a straight line.

Crack!

Pain exploded again across Artie's face, localized around his nose. Hissing like an angry cat, he grabbed Jim's shoulders in a vice-like grip, feeling dizzy, almost passing out. "Hurts." he moaned softly.

Jim said, "It's over, I pushed it back in place. "Can you breathe well?"

Artie inhaled and exhaled slowly through his nose. "Yes, I can. I'm going to need ice on my poor nose to avoid more swelling though."

Jim nodded. "I know, I'm going to bring you that in a moment. First I need to take care of your lips buddy." He took a pot of healing ointment (a mix of bee wax and honey) from the medical kit and applied a little of it on Artie's injured lips. "There, you'll have to do this several times a day, and your lips will heal nicely." He smiled. "You should be able to kiss a woman in a week."

Smiling weakly, Artie let out a, "Ha-ha-ha! Very funny Jim!' Then he winced. His whole face throbbed.. "Ow! Ow! Ow!"

His vision blurred, his nose hurting like hell, the older man slumped backward and moved into a half-sitting, half-lying position on the golden embroidered couch, too small for his frame. "Thank you…" He paused as tears flooded his face. He asked, "What are we going to do now?"

Standing, Jim replied, "It's simple. We have to find Loveless Jr. and arrest him and his men – and women. I'm going to send a wire to Malone to keep him informed of the recent events. As for you Artie, take some rest. You need it."

From the medicine kit, he tipped out a couple of painkillers from a bottle and gave them to Artemus. "That should help," he said.

He headed toward the galley and came back a couple of minutes later holding a cloth filled with pieces of ice and a glass of water, which he gave to Artemus.

He watched his best friend swallow the pills with a sip of water, took the empty glass back and then gently settled the 'bag of ice' on his best friend's bruised face.

He helped Artie to move into a comfortable position, placing pillows around him and then added, "Sleep well buddy."

His pounding head as heavy as lead, his limbs feeling like sodden cotton and his shoulder burning and his nose too, Artie's closed his eyes red and glassy and he was fast asleep.

WWW

 _Much later,_

On the verge of consciousness, Artemus vaguely felt cold pressing on his forehead. he lifted a weak hand and touched… metal.

He opened his eyes and jumped seeing a man holding a .45 to his head and recognized one of Loveless's henchmen.

He raised his hands and slowly turned his head to the side and saw Michelito Loveless who was sitting on the opposite couch.

His other goon was standing beside him, holding a gun.

He spotted Jim lying on the carpeted floor, at his feet, unconscious, trussed up tightly. He was breathing ok and he wasn't wounded, he noticed in relief.

Loveless Jr. smiled, "Ah! How was your nap Mr. Gordon? I could have woken you up, but you'll need all your strength to withstand what I have planned for you."

Slowly moving into a sitting position, Artemus said, "I thought you were long gone; heading back to your hideout, somewhere…"

Michelito Loveless nodded. "Because of you, I had to leave New Orleans hastily, that's true and I used my personal train called the Silver Arrow to escape, but I came back when everyone, including you, thought I was far from here. I couldn't miss the opportunity to capture you again to be able to carry on my plan." He glanced around him and said, "It's beautiful but the Wanderer is an old train, slow and tired ... like you. Mine is up-to-date and rapid, like me. By the way, entering the Wanderer even with her door locked was child's play. You should install an alarm system to signal any intrusion." He snapped his fingers. "Don't bother. You won't need it when you are dead."

Blinking tiredly, Artie nodded. "I had one installed years ago, which worked very well, but it was removed, along with a lot of things when the train was decommissioned."

Loveless stood up and snapped his fingers. "Berkley, take Mr. West to my place and be sure to keep a watchful eye on him." The taller of the goons, Berkley pulled Jim up over his broad shoulder and holding him, left the parlor car.

Frowning in deep concern, Artie watched them leave the room and asked Loveless Jr. "What are you going to do to Jim?"

The short man shook his head. "I'm not going to tell you, Mr. Gordon. That way you will be able to imagine the worst things possible, as you have a vivid imagination, and you will be sick with anxiety…" And he grinned like the Cheshire cat. "He'll die though, like you will, slowly, painfully. But the way he'll die is different from the way I have planned for you. And this time your friend won't be able to save you or you to save him."

Artemus moved into a sitting position a gun still pointed at his head. "Could I have an inkling of what you have planned for me Junior? You know me, I'm curious."

Michelito Loveless stood up running his hand along the top of the couch. "It has something to do with your fondness for disguise… let's call it 'death by disguise'." Looking up at his other henchman, he said, "Grover? Prepare another dose of sedative, this time for M. Gordon, a long journey awaits him." The thug standing beside his boss complied, pulling out a pre-filled syringe from the inner pocket of his jacket. "Sleep well, Mr. Gordon. I hope you have fun."

Grover stabbed Artie's arm with the injection needle enjoying the older man's grimace of pain and then, a few seconds later, watched him close his eyes as the drug took effect.

His vision blackening, heart pounding in his ears, Artemus dropped limply to his side, his head resting on the cushion and he finally closed his eyes.

Loveless nodded. "Good! Use the Silver Arrow to take him next to the Indian Territory and then you'll start my plan in Miller Springs. You have your instructions."

Grover had a crocodile smile. "With pleasure."

The short man glanced around him. "I'm going to borrow this train to go to Phoenix, and from there I will take my carriage to go to Las Mesas."

Tbc.


	3. Act Two

**THE NIGHT OF THE GRAND OLD LADY**

 **By Andamogirl**

WWW

 **ACT TWO**

 _In Loveless's hideout,_

 _Las Mesas, Arizona Territory, the next evening_

James West opened his eyes to find himself sprawled on his back on a comfortable bed, his head resting on a fluffy pillow.

He pulled himself into a sitting position and moaned.

He felt dizzy, disoriented and groggy and his mouth was dry like the desert. He groaned as his head ached and felt like it was full of soggy, cotton wool.

Side effects of the sedative, he thought as everything came back into his mind in a flash. He had been attacked by Loveless's men while he was making coffee in the galley, he had struggled against them, but one of them had stabbed his arm with a syringe filled with a powerful sedative. Then he had lost consciousness and he didn't remember anything after that.

He looked around him not seeing Artemus. He was alone and was prisoner in a small hotel bedroom but with bars at the window.

He stood and headed toward said window, opened it and glanced down into the street. There was nobody there and tumbleweeds were rolling past decrepit buildings which seemed abandoned accompanied by the sound of a dry, hollow wind.

He concluded that Loveless had brought him to a ghost town.

He moved toward the door, opened it and found himself in front of a set of bars coming from the ground and going to the ceiling. "Nice," he said.

He had just said that when Michelito Loveless escorted by his two henchmen moved in his direction coming from the other end of the corridor.

The short man asked, "Ah! You're awake Mr. West, did you sleep well?" Getting no response from his prisoner he added, "Welcome to Las Mesas, Mr. West, a ghost city where I chose to settle – temporarily. It's dead calm, so you can scream for help, no one will come here to help you… I came here because there's a rocky hill not far from here which will have a very important part in my final plan, but I'm not going to reveal it to you. My father conceived numerous plots and loved to tell you about them, and you foiled each of them. I won't make this mistake."

Crossing his arms on top of his burgundy smoking jacket, his face impassive as stone, Jim asked, "Your plan will fail all the same – whatever it is. You are a Loveless. Like father, like son. Now tell me Loveless, where is Artemus?"

Loveless Jr. smiled wickedly. "Oh, he's somewhere far from here. But you'll see him again soon. He'll be dead, of course."

Unfazed Jim said, "No he won't. Oh he'll come here yes, but to help me – and I'm sure of it. I'm not worried about him… 'Oh yes, I am!' he thought, his stomach in knots. "Your father tried to kill him, and me with him, dozens of times, and he failed on every occasion, as you will fail. It must be some hereditary trait with delusion of grandeur too."

Upset to hear that, Loveless Jr. scowled and groaned. "I won't fail, it's impossible!"

Smiling Jim said, "Impossible is not Artemus Gordon." He paused watching as Loveless pursed his lips together in annoyance and then he asked, "What did you do to Artemus?"

The short man calmed down abruptly and smirked. "I offered him his last role – and his audience is going to kill him." He gloated and added, "By the way, I borrowed your train to come to Phoenix, and it's an old train, slower and less luxurious than mine. But it served me well. This time it will be decommissioned for good after your death."

Moving back to his bed, Jim said, "Don't count on it."

WWW

 _Somewhere at the border with the Indian Territory,_

 _Near the Cheyenne-Arapaho lands (Oklahoma Territory)_

Far away from his partner, Artemus Gordon woke up sprawled on his stomach, on hard ground. He opened his eyes and groaned at the searing light.

He squeezed them shut and opened them again, slowly this time.

He propped himself up on his elbows and then moved to a sitting position, his eyes gradually adjusting to the blinding sunlight.

He moaned while brushing away the sand and dust from his cheek and temple stuck there by sweat. He felt dizzy, disoriented and groggy and his mouth was like a river bed. His head ached and pounded and felt like it was full of lead.

Side effects of a sedative, he realized t as he remembered what had happened last night with Loveless Jr. Or was it longer than that? He didn't know.

He looked around him and blinked in surprise. He was sitting near a flat rock, in the middle of nowhere, more precisely in the middle of an immense semi-arid plain that stretched for miles around him. There were boulders, shrubs, grasses, and rugged hills covered with scrubby vegetation at the horizon and nothing else. The air was shimmering with heat, heavy and burning to breathe.

He stood up and swayed on his feet. "Abandoning me here so I die from hypothermia and thirst is not very creative Michelito," he said.

He spotted a dead horse a little father, flown over by dozens of insects and then he realized that he was dressed in Cheyenne's clothing which included a loin cloth held by a belt, leggings decorated with painted designs and colored pearls, a buckskin shirt decorated with more painted designs and more colored pearls and, finally moccasins. He even had a knife kept in a beaded sheaf. "What?"

He reached out and touched his head. A wig with long pigtails and a headband was sitting on his head. "Why did Loveless disguised me as a Cheyenne warrior?" he asked himself.

He tried to remove his fake 'Indian' hair, but couldn't - the wig was solidly glued to his own hair.

On his left Artie spotted a hat adorned with an eagle feather abandoned on the ground and picked it up to protect himself from the sun.

He saw a rifle leaning against the flat rock and took it. "At least I'm going to be able to defend myself…" and found out that it was bullet-less. He sighed. "Just great! I'd like to know what the hell is going on here..." He took his knife and was relieved it was a real one "Well, that's better than nothing I suppose." Then put it back in place in its sheath.

He lifted his eyes toward the bright hot sun shining overhead then lowered them. "Let's find a shelter old man or you're gonna burn," He said. He glanced at his hands expecting them to be reddened by sunburns already as his skin was pale – and gasped in surprise. They were deeply tanned. "What's the hell…?" He rolled up a sleeve and noticed than his skin was 'colored' there too.

He lifted the front of his fringed shirt and saw that his belly and torso were deeply tanned too. Thinking it was greasepaint, he tried to wipe his belly with the back of his sleeve – but nothing happened. His skin wasn't covered with skin-darkening cream but was tinted unnaturally.

He sighed. "Loveless Jr. did a great job. He probably used some chemical to tan your skin Artie. You really look like an Indian… But the big question is again, what for?" His nose began to itch so he scratched it and… discovered that it didn't have its usual form.

He had a fake nose, more aquiline than his. He also discovered a false scar that crossed his whole face from his right ear to his chin.

He sat on the flat rock and sighed again. "I don't understand… I'm disguised so I look like a Cheyenne, there's a dead horse nearby, my rifle his empty, I'm alone here…" He looked again around him, furrowing his brow. "This place… It looks familiar somehow… Think Artemus, think." After a minute he snapped his fingers. "Got it! The attacks on the railroad, the bogus Cheyenne warriors, American Knife…" And the whole story came back to his mind. "That was a long time ago…I know now where I am…" He paused even more puzzled. "But now I have another question. Why am I close to the Cheyenne-Arapaho territory?"

He suddenly saw a piece of paper folded in two lying on the ground next to a stand of greasewood. It had probably fallen from his belt when he had pulled up the front of his buckskin shirt, he thought.

He picked it up, unfolded it and started to read aloud what was written on it, "Dear Mr. Gordon, I sincerely hope that you are appreciating your present disguise. And you're probably wondering why I transformed you into an Indian – into a Cheyenne - the disguise being so perfect than no one could tell that you're not a real Indian. Let me explain everything to you then. This morning, shortly before dawn, a group of bogus Indians played by my men – attacked a small town called 'Miller Springs' and killed two women – well, not really. Deirdre and Cassandra are very much alive and still working for me - then those 'Indians' fled into the desert – the same desert you are in Mr. Gordon - heading toward the Indian Territory. A posse of people horrified by those murders in cold blood started a pursuit shortly after ready to kill the Indians. Of course my men removed their disguise, and joined the group of pursuers. When they locate you – and they will, it's a matter of hours now, they'll say, "I recognize him! That's the Indian who killed the two women'… then they will let the good people of Miller Springs shoot you. Then my men will bring your corpse to the town, where others are waiting with a buckboard, ready to bring your dead body to the Silver Arrow, and to me. I'd be pleased to show it to your best friend and partner, Mr. West, who is my prisoner – I'm sure he will be thrilled. Then I will kill him in his turn."

Fear gripping his heart he said, "That was a very creative set up indeed". His hands now trembling, he continued to read, "Goodbye Mr. Gordon. Signed Michelito Loveless." He groaned. "I hate that pipsqueak!" He unconsciously slid the letter in his beaded belt. "Oh boy! I'm so dead!"

He stood up and squinting looked at the foothills that were only a few miles from where he was "They will shoot me before I have time to explain myself… I have to hide somewhere in those hills. At least Jim's still alive. The only chance I have to survive is to reach the Indian Territory before that posse finds me…" he said before running his tongue over his dry and cracked lips.

But it was miles away.

Having said that, Artemus started to run through the barren and inhospitable sun-bleached terrain, hearing a group of vultures screeching overhead.

WWW

 _Later_

Feeling his worry growing with each stride, Artemus ran for two hours in the heat of midday and collapsed against a rounded rock, resting in the relative cool of the shade, feeling his stiff legs and arms burning. He was totally exhausted, heaving for breath and was sweating profusely.

He stayed there for a few minutes to regain some feeling in his limbs with eyes half-closed, drowsy in the dry, stifling heat. "Don't fall asleep…" He rasped; his throat raw. "They're… not far… They're gonna kill you… Okay old man… Time's up."

Artie managed to stand up, his legs now feeling like overcooked pasta and he licked his chapped lips. "Water, water! My kingdom for a simple glass of water!" He said, horribly thirsty.

Feeling too hot, he removed his buckskin shirt and wrapped it around his waist, knotting the sleeves in his front – but regretted it as the sun started burning his shoulders.

He looked around him searching for a cactus – because cacti stocked up water inside, and he had a knife – but he didn't find any… and froze in dread as he saw a large cloud of sandy dust on his left signaling people riding horses.

He took an involuntary step back and almost stumbled on a stone. "Oh no! No-no-no!" He said and his breathing quickened in panic.

He ran in the opposite direction of the coming posse again, as fast as he could.

WWW

 _Later_

The fake Cheyenne had almost reached the foot of a medium high rocky hill when a series of gunshots coming from both rifles and revolvers resounded and dozens of bullets flew all around him, hopefully hitting the bushes and the dust only.

Artemus spotted a group of rocks and hid there. The people wanting him dead – he counted ten of them – were heading toward him. "Don't shoot! 'I'm not an Indian!' He rasped in between harsh, panting breaths – and a new salvo of bullets hit the rocks.

Taking a foolish risk - but he had no choice if he wanted to be able to explain himself, Artie slowly stood up, his hands raised. 'My name is Artemus Gordon! I'm a federal agent. Let me explain…" And a bullet whizzed past his head, barely missing him.

He heard, "I recognize him! It's the Indian who killed the two women!" then "Shoot him!" and "Don't let him escape!" and "Kill him!"

Feeling panic constrict his chest Artemus left his temporary shelter and moved as fast as ho could toward the top of the hill, doing his best to avoid the bullets hissing all around him.

He had finally reached the big rocks topping the hill as more bullets whizzed past him when a violent pain shot through his right shoulder.

His legs gave out completely, and he slumped to the ground in a heap, face down in the sand. He had been shot, he realized. He gritted his teeth. "Boy, that hurt!" he let out.

His vision blurring then graying, he saw three Indians head toward him – real Indians – and he recognized Cheyenne warriors holding bows and arrows. "Néh-véstȧhemėstse! Néh-véstȧhemėstse! (Help me!) he cried out, in Cheyenne language before passing out.

WWW

When the people from Miller Springs and Loveless's men reached the top of the hill in their turn, single-minded on killing an Indian, they couldn't find Artie's body anywhere.

He had just vanished.

Frustrated and angry, they saw traces left by hooves and they knew that a small group of Indians had rescued their comrade.

But they couldn't go further. It was Indian Territory. They didn't want to fight against Cheyenne warriors willing to defend their land.

One of the men spotted blood on the sand and said, "He's injured! Let's hope he'll die from his wound!" And the others nodded.

WWW

 _Loveless's hideout, much later_

Michelito Loveless gestured to the chair. "Please be seated Mr. West." Then he took his place at the end of a large table covered with gold tableware. "I hope you're hungry. My French Chef prepared the finest meals for us. and of course the wine is just fantastic!"

Sitting on the opposite side of the table, Jim looked around him. The room – the hotel restaurant - was richly decorated but the wallpaper was faded, the paint peeling, the chandeliers covered with dust and cobwebs and… four armed men were standing next to the door. "I'm not hungry."

Loveless's eyes suddenly flashed in anger, his face twitched and he hit the table with the flat of his hand making everyone in the room – but him – jump. "I'm not hungry either! Because of that incredibly lucky partner of yours!" he said fuming, curling his shaking hands into fists.

Both immensely pleased and relieved to hear that, Jim smirked and said, "Artie's still alive and causing you some trouble? Things not going as planned shorty?"

The short man groaned. "Don't call me that! Mr. Gordon had some help and he escaped. But this is only a postponement. " He calmed down abruptly and gulped his wine. "Don't rejoice too quickly Mr. West, Artemus Gordon is going to die, well, not the way I had planned, but he'll die nonetheless. The Cheyenne are not particularly fond of white men – after what they did to them, like for example taking their ancestral lands and forcing them to go to the Indian Territory. They'll soon discover that Mr. Gordon is not a real Indian – hearing him talk English - even if he really looks like an Indian, and they will chase him away from their territory, not wanting problems with the soldiers of the closest fort – and he'll die from his injuries."

Paling Jim asked, "He's injured?"

Loveless nodded. "Yes, he was hit by one bullet at least. Cheyenne warriors took him with them, but they won't help him, like I said. He's a white man and nothing but trouble for them."

Hiding a smile of relief, Jim thought, 'On the contrary, they will do everything they can to help him. He's a Cheyenne warrior. And Loveless doesn't know that.' "Do you know what band those Cheyenne belong to?" He asked.

Loveless shrugged. "I don't know, and I don't care, he's with the Cheyenne living near the Red River, one of my men told me. Why?" He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "You know them?"

Shaking his head, Jim replied, lying trough his teeth, "No, I don't. Artemus and I try to avoid the Indians. They almost killed us several times in the past." Feeling even better knowing that Artie was with his band and in good hands, Jim mused, 'Perfect! He's with his band then, and American Knife is going to take care of him. He's in good hands. He'll stay in the Cheyenne settlement until I find a way to join him there.' He took the bottle of red wine sitting on the table in front of him and poured himself a glass of the ruby liquid. "A toast to my very lucky partner," he said. Then he smiled broadly.

Loveless didn't.

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 _Red River's Cheyenne settlement_

Motšėškevé'ho'é (American Knife) knelt beside the wounded warrior that three braves had rescued in the hills, at the border of the reservation, from a group of armed white men who wanted to kill him. He was still alive but had suffered from the heat and he was injured.

He frowned, intrigued. The man wasn't a member of his band but he knew that face… He just couldn't put a name to it – yet.

He noticed that blood was still oozing from a wound to his right shoulder. There was a gash where the bullet had gouged out the flesh, barely missing the collarbone. "It's not deep", he commented to the Chief of the Red River band who was sitting beside him. "He should heal nicely within days." He noticed a stitched wound there too. "He was injured before, and it's recent. It looks like he was stabbed His lips were split too. He was in a fight."

Eše'he Ȯhvo'komaestse (White Moon) nodded. "In a fight? With whom? White men? Maybe that's why he was hunted down by white men who wanted to kill him…"

Motšėškevé'ho'é rubbed his chin pensively. "And where is his horse? They probably killed it, that's why he was on foot. But I wonder what he was doing out of our territory in the first place? Everyone knows that it is forbidden to leave the reservation unauthorized, and that white men can shoot us because of that. And it's probably why they chased him and wanted to kill him."

Intrigued too White Moon nodded. "I will ask him some questions when he regains consciousness. Is he going to be alright?"

The medicine man took the unconscious warrior's wrist and felt his pulse – which was strong and rapid – and nodded. "É-he'koneotse." (He is strong).

He wiped the unconscious warrior's dirty face with a wet rag – then ran it on the other man's torso and arms, removing the thick layer made of sand and dust that sweat had stuck to his skin.

He was cleaning the right arm when he noticed a tattoo showing an intricate dragon curled around the other man's arm.

He froze and lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "It's a dragon!" He exclaimed. Cheyenne didn't have any tattoo like that, he thought. It was a white man's tattoo.

White Moon who didn't know what a dragon was, displayed surprise too. "It's a dragon? I thought it was a tattoo of Mehneo'o, the monster who lurks in lakes and springs and eat humans…"

Motšėškevé'ho'é nodded. "No, it's not Mehneo'o, but a dragon. A dragon is a large, serpent-like legendary creature that appears in the folklore of many cultures around the world. A lot of white people, seamen usually, love that kind of tattoo…"

Puzzled, the Cheyenne Chief frowned. "But he's not a white man," he said.

American Knife noticed a piece of paper protruding from the injured man's belt and took it. He unfolded the letter, read the first words and… his eyebrows shot up to his forehead in profound stupefaction. Then he lowered his eyes to his blood-brother… "Yes, it's a white man, but not any white man, his name is Artemus Gordon, and his Cheyenne name is Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse." He rolled Artie to his side and glanced at the Comanche tattoo the other man had on his lower back. "Yes, it's Artemus." He lowered Artemus on his back then. "There's no doubt, it's him."

Eše'he Ȯhvo'komaestse was stunned and observed Artemus's slack face. "Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse? He's White Eagle?"

The ma'heónėhetane (medicine man) nodded. "Yes, it's him." He pulled on the wig that Artemus had on his head and because the glue had melted thanks to the heat and perspiration, after two attempts, he managed to remove it - revealing dark, flattened, and sweat soaked curls with a touch of grey at the temples which were plastered on the other man's skull.

Then he removed the fake nose and the fake scar too.

The new Chief of the Red River band cupped Artie's face and turned it to the side, toward him. "He's older but I remember him now. The last time I saw him I was a just a child. He is a great warrior, he has two eagle feathers and Ma'heo'o, the Wise One Above protects him." He frowned in confusion and asked the medicine man. "Why is he wearing Cheyenne clothes Motšėškevé'ho'é? Did he wear them because he wanted to come here to visit us as Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse and not Artemus Gordon? That could explain why the white men tried to kill him when they saw him, they thought he was a Cheyenne… out of the reservation." He touched Artie's skin then rubbed it and then he glanced at his fingers. Nothing. "His skin is not white! And it's not painted. How is it possible?"

Motšėškevé'ho'é replied, "I suppose the person who wanted him to look like a Cheyenne used some kind of chemical to taint his skin." Seeing that Eše'he Ȯhvo'komaestse was lost, he added. "It's a long story, I'll tell you later." He looked down at Artemus again and said, "Don't worry, Artemus, you're safe here. I'm going to take care of you."

There was a moan.

Cracking his eyes open, Artemus saw nothing but distorted and blurred colors. "Jim… Jim… help me," he breathed helplessly.

The medicine man took a clay bowl filled with water and positioning it closer to the other man's split and chapped lips, he managed to ease a little of the water down his throat. Artemus coughed and spluttered then his eyes rolled back and he lost consciousness again.

Eše'he Ȯhvo'komaestse stood and then said, "He called for his friend and partner, James West right? I remember him too. They are agents of the US Government. I'm going to send a warrior to the fort, to tell Colonel Andrews that Artemus Gordon is here. His partner James West is probably searching for him."

American Knife shook his head. "No. James is prisoner of the man who tried to kill Artemus. We have to wait Eše'he Ȯhvo'komaestse. Artemus here will find a solution. He's a very ingenious man."

The young Chief nodded. "Take good care of him, American Knife. I don't want him to die. "Éoné'seómė-hetaneve (he is brave). Then he left the medicine man's tepee.

Looking down at Artemus, passed out, he said, "He's going to be alright. He is protected by Ma'heo'o, the Wise One Above, the creator of all physical and spiritual life."

WWW

 _Much later, at night_

Artie regained consciousness slowly, hearing the crackling of a fire and feeling the warmth of its flames on his left side.

He turned his head toward the fire which was burning… in the middle of a tepee. Very surprised he blinked twice and let out, "Huh? Tepee?"

He tried to pull himself into a sitting position but a terrible pain in his right shoulder made him cry out and dissuaded him from moving again and he groaned. "Owww…" He glanced at his – other - wound and saw that it had been neatly stitched like the one Jim had taken care of, and that it was covered with a thick layer of herbal ointment facilitating rapid healing.

He just lay there, naked, on a soft mattress of buffalo furs, his head propped on a bundle of colored blankets glancing around him. "I'm not dead," he said in great relief. "Thank God I'm not dead." He frowned puzzled. "Why am I not dead?" Watching spirals of smoke moving out from the cone-shaped tent through it's opening he remembered the three Cheyenne warriors he had seen on the top of the hill after he was hit by a bullet. He had asked them for help, and they had helped him indeed. Thinking he was a Cheyenne, they had brought him to their settlement, that explained the tepee, he thought.

He furrowed his brow searching through his memory. He knew that tepee… He suddenly recognized the painted symbols of the eye of the medicine man. "American Knife! It's his tepee!"

He let out a long sigh of relief. He was in his band, safe. Yes, safe. The disguise that was supposed to kill him had actually saved his life, he added in his mind. Loveless's elaborate plan to kill him had failed. "Again… much better for me," He whispered.

Suddenly the flap of the cone-shaped tent pulled back and Artie instantly tugged the buffalo furs closer around himself, keeping his private parts, private.

Holding a bowl of water, American Knife entered the tepee.

Looking up at the medicine man Artie rasped, "Haáahe… " (Hello).

The old Cheyenne said, "Haáahe Artemus. How do you feel?" He knelt beside his blood brother and 'patient' and touched his brow to check if he had a fever. He hadn't.

Placing his hand on the other man's arm, Artie replied. "I'm alive, but I've been better. Thank you, you saved my life - again. It's good to see you again my brother. It has been a long time."

The Cheyenne nodded. "Yes indeed. I missed you." He gently lifted Artie's head with one hand and pressed the bowl of water to Artie's lips with the other. "Drink, Artemus, you suffered from heat and you need water to fight dehydration."

Pointing at the fire Artie said, "Not a good idea then…"

The medicine man smiled. "I know, but it's cold outside, nȧ-htatanéme (my brother) and I don't want you to fall sick." And he watched Artie drink the water greedily.

Spilling water over his bare chest, Artemus realized how thirsty he was. "Né-á'eše! (Thank you)." He said when the bowl was empty.

The Cheyenne smiled. "You're welcome Artemus."

Artie rested his head on the bundle of colored blankets again, shaking with exhaustion. Then with an expression of embarrassment on his face, he said, "I'm really sorry I didn't come here before today American Knife – well I was brought here actually - anyway… After I left the Secret Service I became an actor again and I was really busy traveling throughout the country with different troupes… But I promise to come back here as soon as I have the opportunity, in order to reacquaint myself with the Cheyenne-me and with my band of course and spend time with you."

Bowing his head, American Knife replied, "It's good to hear that, and you will always be welcome in your band, and among the Cheyenne in general… " He paused and curious, he asked; "So you're not an agent of the Secret Service anymore?"

Still cross at Skinny Malone, Artemus said. "Jim and I were contacted a few days ago by the Director of the Secret Service and we accepted to temporarily leave our retirement to do a special assignment – and met a new powerful enemy, Michelito Loveless, the son of Miguelito Loveless, our old Nemesis. Our mission was a success, but Director Malone, the new head of the USS found a wicked way to force us to work for the Secret Service again – and it's still sticking in my craw."

Motšėškevé'ho'é nodded. "Things are clearer to me now… It wasn't my intention to be curious, but I read the letter you kept in your belt. That man, Loveless he invented a very creative set up to kill you, Artemus. And he's keeping James prisoner."

Artie sighed. "Yes he is, and I wanted to see you about that precisely. I have to find Jim if I want to be able to help him. But I don't know where Loveless is keeping him prisoner. The only way for me to be with Jim is to die – without actually dying of course - and that Loveless Jr.'s goons bring my dead body to him." He pulled himself into a sitting position with American Knife's help and then said, "If only it was possible for me to make that special drug I created more than ten years ago and tested twice already, I could do that, but I can't do it… " He rubbed his tired face and added feeling totally helpless. "He's gonna kill Jim."

Intrigued, the Cheyenne medicine man asked, "Tell me more about this special drug… Maybe I could help you, nȧ-htatanéme."

Feeling hope burgeoning in his heart – as he knew that American Knife had a vast knowledge of potions and drugs - Artie explained, "With that drug I could easily fake my own death because it considerably slows down the heartbeat to a point it's almost imperceptible and impossible to find a pulse and it slows the blood flow to the point where the body loses several degrees – like it's in hypothermia - and the skin is cold, like that of a corpse and it paralyses the body in order to imitate rigor mortis. But, unfortunately, I can't get access to my lab, in the Wanderer and I don't even know where the train is located."

The medicine man nodded. "I understand. I think I can help you Artemus. I can prepare for you a potion which has similar effects."

Grinning, Artie said, "That's fantastic! Thank you!" Placing a hand on his stitched wound, he winced and said, "That's perfect. Let's hope that Loveless won't stab me with a knife to verify if I'm really dead – or I will end up really dead this time. And Jim will die too. But I think he'll be so happy, so thrilled and so ecstatic to see my dead body that he won't check if I am really dead and far too eager too, to show my corpse to Jim and gloat… Oooh, I just had a brilliant idea… but first, and I'm sorry, you have to undo what you did to my wound and camouflage the traces let by the stitches so that we can't see them."

Puzzled, the medicine man frowned, "Hénová'éto?" (Why?)

Blinking tiredly, Artie said, "I need it b'cause I want Loveless to believe…that the Cheyenne abandoned me in the desert, on a horse – and I will need a horse by the way, a méo'evo'ha (war horse) like Mo'éhno'ha Ȯhtameōhtsėstse, a strong, brave, fast, tireless, intelligent and affectionate horse – but not too tall, I'm old now and I can hardly saddle up. Someone in town will probably keep him for himself, I'll get it back later and will keep him for myself." He paused and continued, "I want I Loveless to believe…that the Cheyenne abandoned me in the desert, on a horse after realizing that I was a white man, in order not to have trouble with the federal authorities… I will die in the main street of the nearest town which is Miller Springs, where Loveless's men can find me, because they're still there waiting to see if something happens. Of course, I'm not going to die there, just pretend to be dead and I will be drugged to the gills…"

Nodding, American Knife said, "I understand. That's a good plan, Artemus. I'm going to prepare the drug for you, it should take a few hours." He stood. "In the meantime He'heeno Ȯhmo'ȯhtavaestse (Black Blackbird) the chief warrior will choose a horse for you."

Fighting to stay awake a little more, Artie continued, "But, and it's a ris… risky plan. I don't know where Loveless is and when I will be brought to him… It's going to be tricky to get the right dosage for the drug to last ... to last the length of time… necessary." He grimaced at this thought. "I hope not to wake up in a shallow grave directly into the earth… because Loveless wouldn't put me in a coffin but would bury me like a dog... in a grave with no name – in order to take revenge on me."

The Cheyenne medicine man nodded, "Indeed. I will give you the highest dose and that should last two days, hoping that is enough."

Lying down Artie closed his eyes. "I hope… that… too… Nákȧhaneotse (I'm tired) he whispered drifting off and he finally succumbed to sleep.

WWW

 _Later_

Feeling something wet and cold on his face, Artemus opened his eyes and was surprised to see a young and lovely woman (kȧse'ééhe) cleaning his face.

He couldn't help but look at her with his best charming smile. "Hello, what's your name?" He asked in Cheyenne language.

She smiled and responded in English, "My name is Red Leaf Woman."

He smiled too. "Ma'evehpota'e… That's a lovely name."

Ma'evehpota'e soaked the cloth she was holding in the wooden bucket of water settled beside her. "Thank you," she said.

He sniffed at the air. "Mmm, thyme… and honey."

Red Leaf Woman nodded. "Yes, I put some thyme and a little honey in the water and then made it boil, it will clean your wounds and facilitate their healing." Then she scooped up the bar of lemon-scented soap that she had placed at the bottom of the bucket. "I exchanged the latest collar I made for this at the office of the Indian agent. Can you sit up, White Eagle?"

He did, wincing, feeling as weak as a newborn kitten and noticed that he was naked – the buffalo furs had slipped off his lap when he was sleeping. He blushed up to his ears in embarrassment and hurried to grab a nearby blanket and covered his private parts with it.

He couldn't help but moan in pleasure when Ma'evehpota'e started running the soapy cloth up and down his chest, stroking it and he closed his eyes.

He reluctantly and gently grabbed the young woman's wrist stopping what she was doing. "Did American Knife ask you to wash me?"

Ma'evehpota'e nodded. "Yes, he did."

He shook his head. "It's useless Ma'evehpota'e, for what I plan to do, I must be covered in grime, on the contrary ... The Cheyenne don't clean their enemies. He forgot that."

Red Leaf Woman frowned, puzzled. "I don't understand… You're not an enemy of the Cheyenne people, you're a Cheyenne warrior, one of the greatest."

Smiling, Artie said, "It's a long story." He took the young and lovely woman's hand, kissing her fingers softly and asked, 'Did I tell you that you are beautiful?"

Ma'evehpota'e's face heated up. "I have a husband, Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse," she said and added, "You are beautiful too."

Grinning, Artie asked playfully, "Even dirty like I am?"

Suddenly the flap of the cone-shaped tent pulled back and American Knife entered his tepee, holding a small terracotta bottle. "The drug is ready," he said.

WWW

 _In Loveless's hideout, Las Mesas_

 _Two days later_

Michelito Loveless had dreamed of it, for years, like his father before him. And now it was real, done. Artemus Gordon was dead. His plan had worked!

He beamed. "Do you see this father?" He asked looking up at the ceiling of the cave in which he was standing – but thinking about 'heaven', his short arms raised upward.

Only silence responded to him.

He continued, "Yes, he's dead! Passed away, departed, gone, no more! I finally managed to kill the so-called immortal Artemus Gordon. I'm sure that you are proud of me. And soon, James West will die too. I will have avenged you and you can finally rest in peace." He bent over the prone figure lying on the ground and put two fingers on Artie's neck to verify if he was really dead. "No pulse," he said noticing that the other man's skin was cold to the touch.

He tried to raise the other man's right arm but couldn't. It was like he had turned into a marble statue. "Rigor mortis," he concluded. "Good! Perfect! Formidable!" Then he started cackling with glee." He's dead, really dead. It's not a trick!" He looked at his bulky henchman standing next to the door and snapped his fingers. "Grover! Bring our guest here. It's time for Mr. West and Mr. Gordon to be reunited." Then he grinned, looking forward to Jim West's reaction.

WWW

Looking bored James West entered the hotel restaurant a few minutes later preceded by Grover and followed by two goons holding a Cot each.

He said, "What is it now Loveless?"

He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw his best friend – dressed in Cheyenne clothes, his skin tanned - lying on the ground, eyes closed, inert – looking dead. He blanched and breathed, "Artie! No!" He stared at Loveless momentarily shocked. "No."

The short man rubbed his hands in utter glee and jubilation, "Oh yes! Yes! Mr. West. Your best friend and partner is dead. Mr. Gordon is cold and stiff, I checked myself. it's not a trick, it's real." He grinned in victory. "I told you, I always got what I want."

Ignoring Loveless's indecent display of joy, Jim took a step forward needing to hold his dead partner in his arms, to check himself if Artie was really dead. He couldn't believe it.

But Grover stopped him brutally – with a punch in his stomach. The special agent sank to his knees and instantly froze when he felt the end of a gun touch the nape of his neck.

Looking at Artemus's motionless form, Jim shook his head, his expression crumpling with absolute devastation as he whispered, "He's not dead, that's impossible." His voice cracked. "Artemus has survived all kinds of perils and ordeals imaginable, most of them orchestrated by your father… He was electrocuted, frozen, he drowned and I brought him back each time…"

Michelito Loveless smiled broadly. "He's dead, and you won't bring him back, not this time. It's over. No one is immortal Mr. West… except me. Because I won't die. I have decided to rebuild my dad's mind-transfer device, to be able to transfer my beautiful mind into the head of a young, strong and - tall - good-looking man that I will choose myself when it is time to do so. Do you remember when he transferred Mr. Gordon's mind into a cat's head?" He chuckled. "That was a brilliant idea!" He paused seeing that the USSS agent wasn't listening to him, staring with incredulity at his partner's dead body, not accepting that he was gone. He beamed. "You won't be separated long from your partner, I promise." He glanced at two other of his minions standing in the back of the lavish decorated room and sharply ordered, "Bring my chair!"

Immediately the two men brought a golden throne-like chair to their boss and the short man, draped in a red cape, took his place on it… placing his right foot on top of Artie's head like a hunter does with a big, dangerous prey he has just shot.

Looking up at Loveless, his face grayish and wet with tears, Jim asked, "What happened? What did you do to him?"

Michelito Loveless explained, "My initial plan took 'a detour' when the Indians rescued Mr. Gordon, thinking he was a fellow brave in danger. I don't know how things happened exactly after that, but I can suppose that the Indians brought him to their village and somehow discovered that he was white… probably after they removed his wig, fake nose and scar because they're gone. As they didn't want to have any problem with the federal authorities they put him on a horse and lead him to the desert…"

Raising his eyebrows with incredulity, Jim thought. 'That's impossible! The Cheyenne didn't do that! American Knife wouldn't have allowed it!

He shook his head in confusion. What had happened there, in the settlement? How could the Cheyenne do this to one of their own? A man they highly respected because he was a great warrior, had two eagle feathers and because he was protected by Ma'heo'o. He was lost.

Loveless Jr. continued his monologue, "They sent him in the direction of the nearest town... which happened to be Miller Springs, where my men were waiting for new instructions. After hours of riding Mr. Gordon managed to reach the town. But it was too late for him. I don't think he died from blood loss because his wound is not that serious, I think he died from exhaustion and heat exposure. He collapsed in the middle of the main street… dead. My men brought him here a few minutes ago after a long trip from Miller Springs to here, the ghost town of Las Mesas, located ten miles away from Phoenix." He paused, enjoying Jim West's devastated look and the new tears rolling down his pained face, reveling in seeing the other man suffer and he added, "Now let's start the last phase of my grand plan – that part concerns you Mr. West. Your demise is close." He snapped his fingers and ordered, "Hit him!"

Grover hit Jim's head with the butt of his gun. The agent collapsed on the ground, unconscious next to his best friend's corpse.

Glancing at the ceiling again Michelito Loveless said, "One gone, one to go father. And then we will be forever rid of them!" Then he grinned, overjoyed.

WWW

 _In an abandoned mine, later_

Moaning in pain, Jim regained consciousness slowly. He was leaning against the ragged wall of a large cavity, his wrists and ankles trapped in heavy shackles, he noticed.

The cavity was weakly lit by a lantern hanging from a hook embedded in the wall, a little further on.

The first thing he saw was the dead body of his partner, lying on the ground close to him – but out of reach. He growled like an angry bear because Loveless had done it on purpose, so that he couldn't grieve over Artemus by holding him in his arms.

Loveless knew it would hurt him deeply – and it did.

He swallowed hard. No, it wasn't a nightmare. Artie was really dead, he mused. He closed his eyes and fresh tears rolled again down his cheeks.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and whispered, "Oh Artie… I can't believe you're dead… "

Michelito Loveless entered the cavity a couple of seconds later, framed by two of his henchmen. "Ah! You're awake Mr. West, good."

Shooting a venomous glare at the short, blond man, Jim said, "I will kill you!"

Loveless tsked tsked. "You're being delusional, Mr. West. Deep sorrow makes you talk absolute nonsense. It's totally impossible." He moved toward the grieving agent and beamed as he noticed wet traces on the other man's ashen cheeks. "Now let me tell you what I have planned for you. As you know, that powerful bomb destroyed my hideout but more important it destroyed my father's shrine – carved out of a butte which I made in honor of my father – and destroyed his grave too – the grave which was located under it. They're gone…" He frowned angrily and added raising his voice a few octaves, "It's your fault if I can't visit my father's grave anymore! And I will never be able to do it again! Ever!"

His face as if carved in marble, Jim said, "Good riddance. Speaking of graves, you'll have one soon, and it's a promise I make to you. I will see to it personally."

Loveless shook his head calming down. "It's nonsense…" He continued, "Then I thought it would only be fair to kill you in a huge explosion, to have your shredded bodies buried under tons of rocks. We are here in an abandoned mine, away from Las Mesas, deep underground, and there's a hill up there, just above us… Then, after the mountain collapses on your corpses I will erect a new shrine for my beloved father, on top of them. He'll love that! When you were unconscious I had my men place a dozen powerful bombs here. They will explode in half an hour."

Looking at Artemus's ghost-white slack face, Jim repeated, slowly, "I - will - kill - you."

Michelito Loveless chuckled. "How? You will be dead. Dead people are by definition, dead, they can't hurt the living."

Unfazed Jim replied, "I will haunt you, I will hurt you and I kill you. I'll find a way to."

Loveless replied to that, "I don't believe in ghosts. And even if I did, ghosts can't harm the living. They are just manifestations of the spirits of the dead… They're incorporeal, intangible and unable to hold a weapon so, totally harmless."

Jim shook his head. "You're wrong. Ghosts can be very powerful. Artie and I met one once, she 'inhabited' her own house and she even tried to kill him."

Ignoring that last remark, Loveless said, "In two hours you will be crushed and then buried under tons of rocks along with your already dead partner." He rubbed his hands in glee. "No more James West! No more Artemus Gordon… Good-bye gentlemen. It's the last time we meet." Then he wrapped himself in his cape and left the cavity of the abandoned mine followed by his two goons.

Staring at Artie's inert body with wide blank eyes, Jim waited for his end – remembering his life at Artie's side beginning when they first met at the end of the war, at the siege of Petersburg, images, sounds and even smells flooding his mind.

Smiling, he was thinking about Artie posing as the Crown Prince of the South Sea Islands, half-naked, freezing, and wearing a feathers coat (a ceremonial garb) when he heard… a small moan breaking the absolute silence of the place.

It was a moan – and a moan coming from… Artemus?

More than astonished Jim stared at Artie, his eyes huge. "What? What?" He let out. That wasn't possible. He was imagining it, he thought. And he gasped in surprise when he saw his best friend's left hand move then his leg have a spasm.

No! It was real. Artemus was still alive!

Relief flooded through him. "Artie! Artie! You're alive! How is it possible? You were dead!" He was grinning like a lunatic, overjoyed. "You're not dead!" Then he remembered their actual predicament and he said, "Come on, buddy. Come on, wake up! We both need to get out of here! Loveless has placed a few bombs here and they will explode I think in a few minutes now! Come on Artie! Wake up!"

With great effort Artemus forced his eyes open. The drug was slowly wearing off. He tried to speak but only a croak managed to pass his lips.

He managed to prop himself on one elbow and groaned, a wave of dizziness overtaking him as well as a terrible pounding headache.

He rolled to one side and expelled the meagre contents from his stomach, retching long after there was nothing left to throw up but a thin trickle of bile. "Oh boy," he breathed feeling nauseous.

Jim moved up to his knees pulling on his restraints. "Artie! Come on buddy! Stand up! You can do it. You have to free me – with your knife. This place is going to explode soon."

Finally Artemus registered that Jim was here and talking to him. He smiled weakly. He had found him. His brilliant but risky plan had worked! "J'm?"

Frowning in worry, Jim nodded. "Yes, it's me, I'm here. Come on Artemus! Stand up, you can do it!"

Eventually, after three failed attempts Artie succeeded in sitting upright on the ground. "Let's start with the sitting position…" He slurred and reached out, grabbing Jim's hand. "Need… help… up," he rasped.

He managed to prop himself up on his knees with Jim's help and clutched on to his partner's shoulder to keep himself upright. "Whoa! The room is spinning… Gonna be sick again." And he burped.

He moved his hand to his mouth in a futile attempt to stop the bile welling up in his throat and then vomited – splashing Jim's lap. "Sorry," he whispered.

Involuntarily grimacing in disgust, Jim said, "Don't worry!"

Slowly, Artie pulled out his knife from his beaded sheath and with shaking hands dropped it to the side before pulling out a lock pick. "Knowing Loveless's fondness for shackles… thought his son would like them too… So I made a lock pick when I was with the Cheyenne…" He used it to unlock the shackles restraining his partner. "I got it right away. I'm pretty good!" and he smiled proudly.

Beaming Jim took Artie in a bear hug and then grabbed the older man by his shoulders eliciting a loud cry of pain from Artemus. "Sorry! Oh it's so good to have you back buddy." He picked up the knife and put it back in the beaded sheath.

Looking around him, Artie finally realized they were in a large poorly lit cavity. "Did ya say bombs?" he asked then cried out in pain when Jim pulled him to his feet.

Holding Artemus against him a tight embrace Jim headed toward the entrance of the cavity opening on a mine shaft. "Let's get out of here Artie before it's too late."

They had just passed the entrance of the abandoned mine when the bombs went off, all at the same time. The force of the blast knocked the two men from their feet and they landed on the ground in a jumbled mass. Debris that had been thrown high into the air as a result of the deafening massive explosions rained down around them, miraculously avoiding them. The roar of the explosions was so loud that their ears started ringing like church bells.

Being the first to sit on the ground covered with stones and dust, blinking rapidly, Jim rolled his immobile partner on his back, gently, slowly, frowning in worry. His eyes were closed and he was limp. "Artie? you okay?" he asked, "Say something buddy, Artie?"

Moving a weak hand to his forehead Artie groaned. "Aaah… M' not deaf… ears r'ging though… Headache. I'm too old for this," he said looking up at the younger man.

Smiling broadly, Jim patted Artemus's leg with affection. "Thanks Artie."

Falsely upset, Artie said, "Is that all you can say to me Jim? I've just come back from the grave, risen like Lazarus, and that's what you say? "Thanks, Artie"?

Eyes twinkling with playfulness Jim nodded and said, "I heard that before, a long time ago… And you weren't even buried in a grave. You're always exaggerating."

Both chuckling they hugged tightly happy to be together again and alive, then they parted from each other and both looked at the huge pile of debris that was now the ex-abandoned mine. Flames and clouds of smoke and dust enveloped them.

Glancing at his companion, Jim explained, "Loveless wanted to build another shrine for his father on top of that, over our dead bodies. He's not going to be pleased to know that we escaped – because he'll eventually know that, we can't stay hidden."

Rubbing his aching forehead, wincing, Artie said, "It would be a good idea though. Let's take the first boat to France. I could open a restaurant in Paris and make fortune – I will share with you, fifty-fifty as you would be my associate. We'll work together like before but without Loveless and the Secret Service."

Jim asked, "And what will I do in Paris? Not the bookkeeping, you're the math genius, not me. not the sommelier either. I don't know anything about wine, you do. I could take care of the dining room and of the customers… bah! No. It's not for me. I would resign at the end of two days." Shaking his head, he added; "And you would be bored after a week. That is not the kind of life that suits us. Let's go back to the Wanderer – but first we need to find her."

Artie nodded. "Good idea. We'll take care of that damn madman another time. For now I just want to crawl in my bed and sleep for a week." He grimaced clutching his injured shoulder. Blood was pouring freely between his fingers now.

Jim shook his head. "Let's find a doctor first, Artie."

Looking around him he added, "But first we need to find a way to get out of here… and we're in the middle of nowhere…"

Pointing at railroad tracks running away from what was left of the abandoned mine and collapsed mountain, Artie said, "Those tracks lead somewhere Jim… We just need to follow them until we find a town – and not a ghost town."

Feeling worried again about his best friend who was not in the best of shape, the younger man sighed and said, "I think they lead to Las Mesas where Loveless kept me prisoner in an abandoned hotel… and Las Mesas is a ghost city."

Grimacing in pain Artie sighed. "Okay… let's stay positive… As there was a mine here maybe there's still a pump handcar somewhere… handcars are generally used for track maintenance and inspection, but sometimes they are used by mining companies to carry various equipment like shovels, pickaxes, struts, etc. from towns to the mines. At least we won't have to go to Las Mesas by foot. But I'm afraid… with my injury and fatigue, I won't be able to pump with you…"

Falsely disappointed Jim tsked twice. "Are you trying to weasel out Artemus? Pumping that handcar with me for miles would be a good exercise to lose some weight."

He winced when he felt Artie elbowing him in his side followed with a glare from his partner. "Okay, let's see if we can find a handcar somewhere..."

WWW

 _The Wanderer, in the evening_

 _Phoenix_

Artemus put the large cardboard box he was holding on the table of the parlor car covered with its new red tablecloth.

He opened it and pulled out the complete disguise of a Cheyenne Indian. "I'm going to throw this in the trash! It's the costume Loveless put on me… and it means nothing to me," he said to Jim who was sitting on the couch sipping at his whiskey.

Surprised Jim asked, "I know that costume reminds you of bad memories, Artie, but it's a disguise, you could need it in future assignments, who knows?"

Dropping the clothes to the table, Artemus said, "I don't need a Cheyenne disguise, if I want to dress myself as a Cheyenne I have my own clothes and adornments stored in my sleeping compartment – like my two eagle feathers for valor which have great meaning for me. They belong to White Eagle, the Cheyenne-me." He touched his chest and proudly said, "Nátsėhéstahe, I am Cheyenne." He took his place beside his best friend, stretched his legs and added, "Boy! I'm glad to be myself again."

Placing a fingertip on Artie' tanned hand, Jim smiled and tapped it. "Well, not completely buddy. What about your tan?"

Raising his hand Artie said, "The effect of the chemical should wear off, someday eventually." He smiled. "I look better dark tanned than green, don't you think?"

Jim chuckled. "You looked good in green Artie. But that dark tan of yours made quite an impression on the lovely nurses at the hospital. They were all wrapped around you."

Taking the decanter sitting on the coffee table, Artemus smiled and poured himself a glass of whiskey in the second glass that was sitting on it. "I noticed. Are you jealous?"

Shaking his head, Jim replied, "No, I'm not. But I would be jealous if a woman I love, a certain - grand old lady – found another man than me."

Grinning, Artie replied, "Let me guess her name, Artemis Gordon? I'm sorry to tell you this but she's not a woman but a man disguised as a woman."

Feigning being shocked, Jim said, "Then her disguise is perfect, I was completely fooled!" Smiling he leaned against the backrest and said, "Speaking of disguise, Loveless's plan to kill you was very creative, on a level with his father's best schemes. Disguise you into an Indian to have you killed by white men… mmm Fortunately for you, he didn't think that you would escape by being rescued by Cheyenne warriors." He patted his best friend's good shoulder. "And speaking of schemes, your plan to free me from Loveless's clutches was brilliant, but very risky. You could have woken up earlier and Loveless would have had you killed or he would have chained you by my side in that mine and we both would have died in the explosions, or he could have had you stabbed or shot to see if you were really dead… You were incredibly lucky!"

Nodding, Artemus said, "I know, but I had no choice, Jim. Pretending to be dead was the only solution for me to be with you and be able to help you."

Jim took a new sip of liquor. "Loveless is still out there, somewhere, and he knows that we're still alive, because he always keeps an eye on us. I'm sure he has already planned something to kill us both."

Resigned to this idea Artie nodded. "Unfortunately you're right, and as he must be absolutely furious and vexed for failing – again - he will act soon, but we don't know where, when, or how..." He sighed. "We can only be on our guard and wait for him to show himself and I don't like it "

Reaching out, Jim opened the box of rare Cuban cigars - one of the President's gifts - which was settled on the coffee table and pulled two habanos from it. He placed one in Artie's hand. "Me too, but it's useless to worry about that. Let's see how things go, and then we'll act." He offered one to his best friend. "Let's have a change of subject. Once you are fine again, buddy, we'll pay American Knife a visit, okay?"

Fishing a match box from his multicolored robe, Artie nodded. "Yes, with pleasure." Then like Jim he bit off the end of his cigar.

Once their cigars were lit, the two men leaned back and drew a first breath and exhaled, tilting their heads toward the ceiling watching the white smoke wisps rise and mix together. Then they both closed their eyes for a few seconds, savoring the rich, heady flavor.

Breaking the silence, Jim said, "They're better than the cigars President Grant was smoking. They smelled terrible!"

Artie nodded. "True, but I got used to them – and I ended up loving them."

Glancing at Artie, relaxing at his side, Jim smiled and said playfully, "That little adventure was good for you buddy. You actually lost weight."

Looking at Jim Artemus chuckled. "Even without pumping that handcar… I ran in that arid prairie for hours, I think I lost all of the water I had stored in my body." Then he took a drag of his cigar and let the smoke drift in tendrils from his parted lips. "We were lucky to find that handcar and even more lucky that track was heading toward Phoenix where the Wanderer was stationed and not to Las Mesas." He placed his hand on his still aching right shoulder and added, "Where a doctor patched me up and he did a great job."

Noticing a piece of paper sticking out of Artie's pocket, Jim pointed at it and asked, "Did we receive a message from Skinny?"

Pulling out the folded sheet of paper from his pocket, Artemus replied, "No, but it will come soon enough. It's a telegram from Captain Sir David Edney. Penelope is gone. She left for England yesterday. He told me that she won't come back. She's been assigned as Queen Victoria's personal bodyguard as a reward for her actions on the last mission. It's a great honor, he told me."

Jim shifted the cigar to his other hand and pressed his best friend's non-injured shoulder in sympathy, "I'm sorry pal," he said.

Artie held the smoke in his mouth and then exhaled gently. "I'm okay, don't worry, it's not the first time I've lost a potential girlfriend. My heart is still in one piece."

Reassured Jim smiled. "She wasn't 'the one'. You'll find her someday," he said before taking a drag on the cigar again.

Suddenly realizing something Artemus said, "I have to go back to Miller Springs, the horse American Knife gave to me is there… I hope. He's perfect:"

Smiling Jim said, "Speaking of horses…" He took a new sip of whiskey and added, "I bought a horse this afternoon when you were doing shopping to replenish the galley. When I saw him in the corral – I fell in love with him! He's a Friesian stallion. It's a very rare breed. He's like Black Jack, but taller and stronger! I bought it from his owner right after I saw him. He has just been trained. He wanted to sell it to the owner of the 'double V' ranch. But I offered him a fortune so he sold it to me. But he's worth it. He's in the stable car, getting to know the other horses there."

Frowning, upset, Artemus asked, "You bought a horse and you didn't tell me? I live here with you, you know? I'm not transparent."

Patting his partner's arm soothingly, Jim replied, "You're hard to miss buddy… I didn't tell you because you took a nap until dinner time. Then I was busy oiling all the guns, and I forgot."

Suddenly the telegraph key came alive.

Tbc.


	4. Act Three

**THE NIGHT OF THE GRAND OLD LADY**

 **By Andamogirl**

WWW

 **ACT THREE**

 _The Wanderer,_

 _A week later_

 _Yuma, Arizona Territory_

It was late at night when Artemus entered the parlor car of the Wanderer, completely exhausted and barely standing on his tired legs.

He removed his dusty hat, dropping it on the work table and headed straight toward the couch, slumping on it heavily a few seconds later.

He took his new bi-colored and fringed jacket off, untied his black ribbon tie and stretched all his aching limbs, exhaling a long contented sigh. He was home, finally!

Mission accomplished, he thought.

He closed his eyes, rubbed them and yawned widely.

He was tempted to go to bed right away but he preferred to wait for his partner who had taken the chance to come back to the Wanderer before he could. While he was busy putting the three men into the lawman's hands, Jim had headed back here for a shower and change of clothes. He had to make himself presentable to report to the Director of the local MINT and give him the fake banknotes printing plates and the saddle bags filled with counterfeited money they had confiscated.

Their last mission had been a success but had been excruciating: Jim and he had followed three counterfeiters and their fake plates throughout the western part of the Arizona Territory, along the border with Mexico, for a whole week, barely eating and barely sleeping. Finally they had apprehended them in San Antonio, at a saloon. They had then escorted them back to Yuma, he mused.

He suddenly spotted a bottle of whiskey with a note curled around its neck and two glasses sitting on the dining table.

Intrigued, he stood up, swayed a little, reached the table and unrolled the small piece of paper. There was a short message written on it and he recognized Jim's writing. He read: "Don't wait for me, Artie, open it. Enjoy!" He smiled and said, "Ah! Jim you're the best, it's a very nice attention, thanks…" He glanced at the label and his smile broadened as he recognized the bottle of expensive liquor. Jim had bought it just before they started their new assignment to celebrate the arrival of their new horses Blackjack and Vovó'hasé'haméhe (Spotted Horse in Cheyenne language and present from American Knife) on board. But busy with their new assignment they hadn't had time to drink it yet. He had left it on the table in the galley.

He smiled, "Let's open it!"

He opened the bottle and poured himself a glass of liquor.

He sat back on the golden couch and nestled there in the plush cushions. He raised his glass for a toast and said, "To Jim West, my best friend and partner!" And then he took a sip savoring the taste of the very old whiskey. He grinned. "Aah! Fantastic!"

He swallowed the rest of the whiskey a few seconds later and closed his eyes again, feeling a warm and smooth torpor numbing his whole body.

He yawned. "Time to go to bed Artemus old man," he said.

Standing on unsteady legs Artemus frowned as he noticed that everything was spinning around him. He put his now empty glass on the table and took a step forward… before crumpling to the carpeted floor, falling onto his knees.

His vision graying, he distantly thought that fatigue couldn't be responsible fpr that and ringing bells sounded alarm in his head.

No, it wasn't fatigue - he had been drugged.

His last thought was: why Jim did drug the whiskey? Then he lost consciousness, slumping sideways, and lying still.

WWW

 _Later_

The door of the parlor car opened half an hour later, and three men entered the train: two gunslingers holding a Colt each preceding Michelito Loveless.

Loveless moved toward the prone figure of Artemus Gordon lying on the carpeted floor, drugged, unconscious and he smiled. "It's good to see you again, Mr. Gordon. I see that you fell into my clever little trap. It was a simple one, but very effective."

Grover and Berkley nodded in appreciation.

The short man sat on the couch and glanced at the bottle of whiskey. "Injecting a powerful drug through the cork was child's play and the trace left by the needle, so tiny that it was almost invisible. It was easy too to forge Mr. West's writing. I'm a man of many talents, and I can imitate all the handwriting." He snapped his fingers and Grover slung Artie on his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

He pulled out a letter from his pocket and placed it on the table, beside the bottle of drug-laced whiskey. "This time you won't escape death."

Smiling again he headed back toward the door, followed by his two goons, one of them holding Artemus against him.

WWW

 _Later_

Holding dozen dime novels under his arm, which he had bought on his way back, James West entered the parlor car of the Wanderer one hour later and set them on the work table, next to Artie's hat.

He looked around him, spotting Artemus's jacket son the sofa. "Artie? I have something for you." And he headed toward the galley.

No one.

He then went to his partner's sleeping compartment knowing that Artie was exhausted after tracking down counterfeiters for three days with almost no rest. He knocked at the door, waited for a few seconds, then he called, "Artie?" softly and hearing no response he then placed his ear against the door.

No snoring. And when he was tired Artie snored, he knew.

He opened the door and found the room empty.

He entered Artie's lab after that and found it empty too.

He snapped his fingers twice. He knew where Artemus was. "He's probably taking care of his new Cheyenne horse in the stable car…" He said and realized at the same time that he had left Blackjack attached to the railing of the rear platform instead of getting his stallion on board – too eager to give his best friend the latest issues of his favorite 'Wild West Stories'.

He entered the stable car saw Vovó'hasé'haméhe in his stall but not his owner.

He frowned beginning to become worried. "Where are you buddy?" He patted and rubbed the neck of the Spotted Blanket Appaloosa horse and said, "You're better here than in that livery stable where that man from Miller Springs had you locked up, right?"

The gelding huffed in agreement.

He headed back toward the parlor car, his brow still furrowed, with a bad feeling squeezing his heart – Artie's absence wasn't normal.

He finally noticed the bottle of whiskey and the two glasses sitting on the table along with a rolled up piece of paper and a letter. "Ah! Artie wrote me something…" he said.

He took the message and read it – recognizing his writing, but he didn't write it. "What the hell…?" he muttered and then opened the envelope.

He read the letter aloud, "Dear Mr. West, I have kidnapped your beloved partner and 'locked' him in a special place where you will never find him, not alive, not dead either – He'll die alone, without hope of being rescued and in darkness, as if he were buried alive. It's such a nice thought. My father will be so pleased when he dies – and when you die too. Your turn will come soon. Michelito Loveless."

His intuition was right, Artie had serious problems. He had now to save him from Loveless Jr.'s clutches, he thought.

Even if he was persuaded that Artemus would survive – whatever Loveless had planned for him – he didn't know how to bring that out.

He nodded. 'Yes, how? And where to start the search for Artie?' he asked himself.

First thing first. He headed toward the telegraph key to inform Robert T. Malone of the situation and tell him that he would start the investigation immediately.

WWW

 _Hoyo del diablo (Devil's Pit), in the Sonoran desert, much later_

It was almost noon and the intense heat was suffocating when Artemus Gordon regained consciousness after a long sleep.

Everything was too bright and he snapped his eyelids closed. He raised his hand to shield his eyes, and opened them slower this time.

His left hand still protecting his eyes from the implacable sun, he propped himself on one elbow – but that simple effort undermined his meagre strength and he slumped limply onto his back.

Moaning, temporarily blinded, he rolled on his side and gradually spreading the fingers he had moved in front of his face, he got used to the bright light.

He heard someone chuckle and turned his head to the left.

He was stunned to see Michelito Loveless sitting on a chair on a dais, under a velum stretched between four posts. Grover and Berkley were framing him. Two others men were standing near a wagon – modified to be more comfortable, he noticed.

Not happy - and it was an understatement – to have been kidnapped again by Loveless, Artie let out a bear-like growl and everything came to his mind, the drug-laced whiskey and him losing consciousness, and now… He looked around him and heaved a long sigh. He had been transported to the middle of an arid plain under a scorching sun. "I should have told you that I hate deserts and heat," he said. "Let me guess, we're in the middle of the Sonoran Desert?"

Loveless smilled. "Yes, we are. How do you know?"

Pointing at a lone Saguaro cactus growing beside a boulder, Artie replied, "Simple, the saguaro or Carnegiea gigantean is native to the Sonoran Desert in Arizona Territory."

Loveless nodded; impressed. "Good deduction, Mr. Gordon, and I don't care if you like deserts or not. I love them. You see deserts are by definition desert and so are perfect to get rid of someone – whose body will never be found - without any witnesses. We are far from the Indian Territory and the nearest town is 20 miles from here. No one will help you this time."

Artie gathered his faint strength, still a bit drowsy from the drug and he managed to pull himself into a sitting position. "What have you planned for me?"

The blond man smiled. "Something creative of course!"

Rolling his eyes upward, Artie said, "I hate that word!"

Michelito Loveless continued, "And this time I'm sure that you will die. You won't have a chance to escape death, Mr. Gordon."

Artie looked around him seeing nothing else but sand, saguaros and rocks for miles and miles around. "Your father told me that many times and I'm still here," he said, untroubled. "I'm curious, why did you choose this place in which to kill me?"

Loveless smiled. "This place past those rocks over there…" He gestured toward a line of big sharp gray and black rocks which didn't seem to belong to the place by their shapes and colors. "Is called el Hoyo del Diablo, and is located in a remote part of the Sonoran desert. Only the local Indian tribes such as the Navajos and the Apaches come here to pray to spirits protecting the place. That place is hotter than hell – hence its name. There's a very large bowl-shaped cavity in the ground about two miles long from side to side behind those rocks there, with a pit in its middle. It has one entrance - and not exit, it's very deep and dark and according to an old Mexican legend, it's a bottomless pit leading to nothingness, to the end of life, to the end of existence. It's called la Boca del Infierno…"

The agent nodded, not impressed at all. "You're telling me all this because you're going to throw me in that pit, right?"

Loveless shook his head. "No, no, no, I'm not going to do that."

Intrigued Artie asked, "Then what?"

Looking disappointed Loveless said, "And I thought you were smart… "

Glaring at the short man, clearly stung by that last remark, Artie replied coldly, "I'm far smarter than you, pipsqueak. That very large 'bowl-shaped cavity in the ground' as you call it, is a caldera. A caldera is a large cauldron-like depression that forms following the evacuation of a magma chamber or reservoir of a volcano. The Boca del Diablo is what is left of an ancient volcano,. You see when large volumes of magma are erupted over a short time, structural support for the crust above the magma chamber is lost. The ground surface then collapses downward into the partially emptied magma chamber, leaving a massive depression at the surface. And the Boca del Infierno is probably a volcanic vent, where the magma was running. This conduit cooled after the eruption and formed a pit of great depth."

Ignoring the insult and bored by Artie's definition of a 'caldera', Loveless continued, "I'm not going to 'throw' you in that pit, Mr. Gordon – but lower you into it with a long, long rope. I don't want you to die that way, it would be too quick and I want you to suffer. You will die deprived of light, of food and water and deprived of any hope of leaving that place by yourself or helped by someone. You'll die, alone and no one will ever find you. Not even the great James West – who is probably doing everything he can to rescue you right now. He'll fail of course."

Unfazed Artie said, "No he won't. He will find me here and he'll rescue me. I have every confidence in my partner, Loveless."

Michelito Loveless shook his head, "Not this time – because I intend to kill your partner, soon, and he too in a creative way."

Sure of himself; Artie shook his head too. "You'll fail – you failed to kill Jim and me once already – and I'm not counting that little adventure with the kidnapping of the President, of Tsar Nicholas of Russia, of Queen Victoria and of King Alphonso of Spain. That wasn't personal, yet. Your 'creative' plans to kill us will fail each time. You're like your father, Junior, he failed each time he tried to kill us. And Jim and I are still here - and your father's dead, and his bones were vaporized along with his grave."

The short man stomped on the sandy ground angrily. "That's enough!" He snapped his fingers and the two goons moved toward Artie who took a couple of steps backward.

Barely able to stand on his own two feet, feeling as weak as a newborn kitten the special agent somehow managed to run away in the opposite direction.

Loveless Jr. upset, groaned. "Go catch him!" He ordered.

Grover and Berkley immediately ran toward the older man. They closed on him rapidly and intercepted him next to a group of rocks.

Artemus resisted. He punched one of Loveless's minion hard in the stomach and was ready to hit his face when the second thug hit him to the left side of his head with a gun butt, very hard.

Pain exploded in Artie's head in time with a hundred of stars behind his closed eyes. He fell to the ground as he sucked in a sharp breath of pain.

He lost consciousness.

WWW

 _Later_

Held by Grover and Berkley Artie woke to a splitting headache and blurred vision and closed his eyes against a wave of dizziness and rising bile.

He groaned, "Let… me… go." And the two minions complied.

He collapsed on the burning sand and dropping his head in his hands, he breathed, "Oh boy… My head is killing me," before throwing up in front of him.

Once it was over, he sat on the ground and wiped his mouth on his sleeve, feeling drained and still nauseous. He blinked his eyes, and everything and everyone came into focus. He touched the pounding and aching side of his head, wincing.

When he glanced at his fingertips he saw blood on them.

His face tinged with green and feeling really tired Artemus recognized the symptoms: he had a serious concussion.

He realized too that he was again wearing an 'Indian wig'. Two long pigtails were resting on his shoulders. He tried to remove it, but couldn't.

Michelito Loveless smiled. "Ah! You finally decided to join us, Mr. Gordon, good." And he watched two of his men pull Artie upright. He was joined by a third man holding a long, long rope. "We have wasted enough time, let's head toward the Boca del Infierno! I usually don't make as much effort, but this is a special occasion that demands I be there in person," he added.

Raising his hand, Artie asked, "Before we go, I'd like to know why I am wearing an Indian wig again. It has no use in your plan."

Loveless smiled. "I have spies in Government Departments, and one of them told me about your 'history' with Indians throughout your career in the Secret Service, for example with the Comanche, the Crow and the Cheyenne… and I learned that you are a Cheyenne warrior and earned two eagle feathers which symbolize acts of courage and honor on behalf of your band - which is the Red River band where you were brought by your friends – escaping the posse and my men, and death. If I had known that at the time, I would never have left you there, but elsewhere away from your friends. And… as you are the best of both worlds, of the US Secret Service and of the Cheyenne I thought it would be appropriate for your death to combine the two sides of you in one, that's why you are wearing that wig, Mr. Gordon – and of course I thought that you would be pleased by this intention…."

Falsely touched, Artemus said, "It's a nice intention, thank you."

Loveless grinned. "You're welcome."

WWW

 _Later_

It took the men two hours or so to go down the large cauldron-like hollow bordered by a ring of steep walls of gray and black rocks.

Hopefully the bottom of the caldera would be flat – but the heat was more intense here as the ground was covered only by dark rocks and stones.

His head throbbing, hit by waves of dizziness and violent nausea, Artemus vomited several times on route to la Boca del Infiernio.

Reeling from the effects of the drug, from his concussion, from heat and exhaustion, Artie collapsed next to a hole on the ground.

Loveless moved toward the edge of the ancient volcanic vent, the size of a big barrel of wine and said, "Here's the Boca del Infernio – which is going to be your grave, Mr. Gordon." he gave a nod to his minion and then ordered, "Grover, the rope!"

The rope was quickly fastened around Artie's waist and he was pushed closer to the pit – and, looking down, he couldn't help but to gasp in fear and he started trembling. Sunlight illuminated the interior over several feet – then it was pitch-black.

Artemus didn't resist, it would have been useless. He had to keep his strength to survive until Jim found him. Somehow. But he knew he would.

Looking at Loveless, Artie said, "I have every confidence in my partner – Jim will find me and rescue me as sure as the sun is rises in the East."

Loveless nodded and all the four goons held the rope tightly. "It's time to go down, Mr. Gordon. I hope the rope is long enough for you to reach the bottom – if not, I will have to drop it… in time with you. The rope is two miles long and I had it made especially for this purpose."

Slowly, prudently, Artie sat on the edge of the pit, his feet dangling in space. He took a long breath and let himself fall in the darkness of the natural well.

Michelito Loveless grinned. "Goodbye, Mr. Gordon. Enjoy your stay in la Boca del Infierno." Then he cackled in glee.

Slowly descending inside the pit, Artie promised, "I'll come back and put you behind bars, where you belong! It's a promise!"

Hanging on the end of the rope, Artemus was lowered little by little into la Boca del Infierno which was like a narrow tunnel and soon an almost complete darkness enveloped him.

He swallowed hard and made a choked noise in his throat, his chest tight with anxiety. It was like going down into a grave when still alive.

After long, interminable minutes of descent his feet met solid ground – and he was immensely relieved. He would not plunge into a limbs-breaking fall down the deep hole.

He could thus explore the Boca del Infierno and find a way out. He knew that this kind of volcanic pit had an underground network of cavities and passages more or less narrow which led for the most part on a fault in the ground, to a crevasse or a canyon.

Right after that he felt the long, long rope become loose and almost received it on his head. He wondered if he needed to take it with him or not and decided to leave it where it was, because it would bother him more than anything. It was too long, too heavy and too cumbersome.

Help yourself and God will help you, Jim in this case will help you, he mused. "Okay, let's find a way to leave this place…"

Lost in now total darkness, Artemus reached out blindly, cautiously, touching the hard and jagged walls of the ancient volcanic vent that surrounded him.

He started to hyperventilate, feeling oppressed. "Calm down old man," he said to himself. "It doesn't help to panic…"

Keeping his right hand in contact with the wall and the other one stretched out in front of him he found an opening and smiled in relief. He was correct. The pit wasn't like a very, very deep well… it had cavities and beyond it passageways.

He moved forward… letting the chance decide his steps.

Up on the surface, Michelito Loveless smiled, satisfied. "One down – literally - and one to go," he said, heading toward his comfortable wagon.

He suddenly stopped, hearing the storm rumbling in the distance. He looked at the horizon and saw black clouds gathering there.

He knew that thunderstorms could be violent in that desert. It could rain heavily for hours… transforming for example dry river beds into torrential rivers or… a hole in the ground,– especially if it was at the bottom of a sinkhole-shaped cavity, into a huge waterfall. Then the rushing torrent, wherever it could went, would carry away everything in its path, or anyone… " His smile grew and became cruel. "Poor Mr. Gordon, dying drowned in the middle of a desert, that's something very creative! Too bad it's not coming from me." He briefly looked up and frowned. "Is it coming from you, father?"

WWW

 _In the meantime, on the Wanderer_

Holding the message he had just received from Director Malone, head of the Secret Service which he had written down on a piece of paper. Jim read aloud, "Take all necessary means and all the necessary time to find your missing partner. You have carte blanche from the POTUS. Good luck. Robert T. Malone." He nodded, his jaw set in determination. "I will find Artie wherever he is."

He left the work table and moved toward the dining table, finding Loveless's message sitting there. He took it and read it, "Dear Mr. West, I have kidnapped your beloved partner and 'locked' him in a special place where you will never find him, not alive, not dead either – He'll die alone, without hope of being rescued and in darkness, as if he was buried alive. It's such a nice thought. My father will be so pleased when he dies – and when you die too. Your turn will come soon. Michelito Loveless.…" He sighed, rubbing his forehead in worry feeling a headache blooming there. "Where are you Artie? That message gives me few clues…"

He took the pot of coffee which was sitting in front of him and a cup and poured a little of the dark, steaming liquid into it.

He took a sip and then started to muse aloud "Okay, "Loveless Junior like his father before him has no patience at all and he wants things to be done quickly. Then there's a good chance he brought Artemus somewhere not far from here to do what he wants to do to him… even if he has a train. Okay, what's next? Artie is 'in darkness', so I suppose he's prisoner in some place underground, and knowing his father's love for underground hideouts, and as he likes to copy his father, I'm unlikely to be wrong. Okay. But he also likes to do better than his father because he has an ego even bigger than the latter, so Artie is probably not locked in a simple cave or cellar and besides, it's not creative enough. So where could Artie be? A mine shaft? A very deep well? A very deep crevasse? Hmm…"

Suddenly feeling cold, Jim shivered and instinctively looked around him as he felt a presence. But was alone in the parlor car.

Could Grant's ghost have returned? He asked, "Are you here Mr. President?"

Ulysses S. Grant suddenly materialized beside Jim – and Jim gasped in surprise, a bit scared as he stumbled back to the couch.

He dropped down on it, his legs like jelly. "Mr. Pre-president…" He croaked not believing his own – wide open - eyes. "You're… you're really here."

Grant smiled broadly. "Yes, I'm really here. I'm sorry for scaring you Jim. But I can't warn people when I materialize, it's unfortunate, I know." He puffed on his cigar and then asked, "You called me, so you knew I existed?"

Calming down, Jim replied, "Yes Sir. Artie and I thought it was you in our sleeping compartment… and we know that ghosts exist."

Grant nodded. "Yes, it was me that night. I visited you before you started your first 'post-re-enlisting' mission. Speaking of Artemus, you need to save him, Jim, because I can't help him. I have limited powers. I can appear to people, talk to them and that's all. I can't act physically. If I could bring Artemus out of that pit, I would have done it a long time ago."

Standing on shaky legs, his heart thumping in his chest with deep, intense pleasure, Jim grinned and said, "It's so good to see you again, Sir…"

The President smiled. "And I'm very happy to see you too, Jim. Like I said, you need to save Artemus. He's in in a pit called la Boca del Infierno, in a place called Hoyo del Diablo in the Sonoran Desert. He's still alive but in mortal danger. I have to go now, to be at his side. See you later."

The ghost suddenly vanished.

Grinning with joy again – he had met Grant's ghost and knew where Artie was, that he was still alive and soon wouldn't be alone, Jim pulled out a map of the Arizona Territory from the drawer of the dresser.

He unfolded it on the table and read all the names written on it, and after a minute, he placed his fingertip on Hoyo del Diablo. "I'm coming Artie!" then he added, "I'm going to need a long, long rope."

And Artie's horse to carry it.

WWW

 _Much later in El Boca del Inferno_

Exhausted and feeling oppressed by the claustrophobic darkness and the narrowness of the irregular passage he had followed blindly for hours, hoping to find a way out of the pit he was in, Artemus stopped his long walk and sat on the rocky ground.

He leaned his head back against the wall, panting, out of breath. It was hot, the oxygen was rare and he was almost suffocating.

He blinked sweat out of his eyes and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

His head was buzzing but he could in the distance hear the rumbling noise of an end-of-the-world-kind-of-thunderstorm. Rain and thunder were extremely rare in the desert and extremely violent and powerful. "I hope Loveless is caught in it," he said.

He ended his thinking there, his ol'nuggin' on pause.

He rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes. He fell asleep shortly after.

He woke up a few minutes later, smelling the strong scent of a cigar – a scent he recognized immediately. General Grant then President Grant smoked that kind of strong cigar during the war and then when he was at the White House… and again, he felt a presence at his side. "Are you here Mr. President?" He asked, reaching out in the darkness with a shaking hand.

He heard a deep voice he knew very well. "It's too bad I can't touch you, son!" and gasped in surprise and he was a bit scared too.

By reflex he recoiled and pulled his hand back. "Oh Dear God!" he let out and his eyes widened in shock seeing the red tip of a cigar.

Then happy and a bit wary too, he stood and then asked, "Sir? Mr. President?"

President Grant's apparition struck a match against the heel of his shoe and raising it, he said, "Yes, it's me. Don't be afraid, Artemus."

Looking up at… Grant's face lit by the small flame, Artie took a shaky breath and replied. "I'm not afraid…" He paused seeing Grant frown, knowing the POTUS hated lies. "Okay I am… I'm sorry, Mr. President. It's a spontaneous reaction, a reflex." He grinned, overjoyed now. "I'm very happy to see you again, Sir. I miss you a lot."

He reached out… and his fingers went through Grant's arm.

Ghost's Grant smiled mockingly. "Like any scientist, you only believe what you see, don't you? Yes, I'm immaterial, I'm a ghost."

Artemus smiled. "Yes Sir;"

The match illuminating a small part of the gallery, the two men looked at each other, both smiling. "I miss you a lot too, Artemus," the ghost said lighting his cigar again and exhaling puffs of smoke. "The last time I saw you, I was dying."

The match remained lit, its flame not burning the soft wood as it should.

Remembering it, Artemus's smile vanished and he felt tears well up and he swallowed hard. "I know… It was one of the worst moments of my life. I lost my father a second time." He rapidly regained his composure and asked, "If I may ask, what are you doing here with me, Sir?"

The ghost of President Grant nodded. "I came here to tell you that Jim is on his way here to help you, but he shouldn't reach the Hoyo del Diablo before tomorrow morning. By then, you'll have to find a way out of here to get back to the surface." He pointed at the ground where water was running at top speed forming a stream that became a small river in seconds. "You're going to have a problem, son."

Looking down, Artie took a step back as the rising water churned, slapping against his ankles in waves. Then he realized with dread that all the stormy rain was certainly pouring into the caldera. All the collected water was running into la Boca del Infierno – like tap water in a sinkhole - and the gallery he was in soon would be turned into an underground river…and trapped here, he would die drowned.

He blanched with terror and took a step back and his feet splashed into water. "No, no, no…Not again," He let out thinking about the few times he had drowned in the past – and it was a horrible death. And this time Jim wouldn't be here to bring him back, he thought.

Grant shook his head. "You're not going to die, Artemus. Stay calm."

Feeling cold water reaching his knees – Artie panicked and ran down the pitch black passageway, away from Grant, away from the light, away from the rushing water, bumping against the walls and stumbling over the jagged rocky ground here and there.

He ran as fast as he could, adrenaline coursing through him, seeing only blackness. He knew that he had to find a shelter before water submerged everything and him in the process and kill him.

He abruptly stopped and paused, out of breath while hearing a loud rumbling – like a strong and fast-moving stream of water and a couple of seconds later a huge wave hit him in his chest and he was caught and swept in the strong current, the underground torrent continuing on its path.

Dragged by the powerful swirling water, Artemus was tossed like driftwood by the powerful water. He hit the walls of the almost submerged and shrinking gully, to right and left, pummeling, bruising and scraping his body being carried helplessly away.

He did his best trying to keep his head above the surface but whirlpools forming in the raging torrent were pulling him underwater nonstop.

He managed to reach the surface each time, craning his neck, water lapping at the underside of his chin, gulping a little air, but he was losing strength rapidly because of fatigue.

The cold water numbed his body too, slowing his movements and swimming was impossible because of the narrowness of the passageway.

He suddenly hit a rock, hard and yelped and gasped in a choking lungful of water. He gagged, choked and sputtered.

He felt a huge, searing pain in his ribs and a tearing agony in his left shoulder and saw stars dancing in front of his eyes. He cried out in shock – and swallowed water again.

Gathering what was left of his strength he fought against unconsciousness because being unconscious meant death.

Submerged by the waves he managed to hold onto something. It was a rock, no, a stalagmite he realized, positioned in the middle of the gallery.

He held it bodily, with all he had, as the thundering torrent was rolling above his head, swirling all around him, and pulling at him, but he resisted, his lungs burning for oxygen.

He managed to draw breaths between two sets of waves, his face a few inches from the wall above him and held on, clinging to his rock.

But the water rose even more and he stayed underwater for three long minutes before he could breathe again, as the level of the calming torrent was dropping down.

In a matter of minutes the furious torrent had been replaced by a gentle stream – to end up in a simple trickle of water.

Sitting on the wet and slippery rocky ground, soaked and cold, with a burning pain in his chest, his teeth chattering uncontrollably, Artie started coughing violently. Then he rolled to his good side with a groan and brutally vomited all the water he had swallowed.

Slowly the gagging was replaced by gasping breaths, and, moving himself onto his back again, he lay panting on the bottom of the now dry gallery, his numb body aching all over.

He was still alive!

His eyes drifted shut and he passed out, a weak smile on his lips.

Ulysses S. Grant's ghost materialized, struck a match against the heel of his shoe and then lightened up Artemus's unconscious form. "Jim is on his way here, he'll help you, son."

Then he vanished.

WWW

 _Much later_

Opening his eyes, Artemus Gordon regained consciousness and immediately cried out in pain, his face twisted in agony.

He closed them briefly before opening them again.

He had at least two cracked ribs and his left shoulder was dislocated, he realized, gritting his teeth against the pain.

He wasn't in darkness anymore, he noticed with relief. He could see the deep blue sky through a large opening above and he could feel the cool wind on his skin.

He was away from El Hoyo del Diablo, as there was no crevasse in the caldera. The torrent had dragged him underground a couple of miles, maybe? He couldn't know, he thought – and his relief abated because he wasn't off the hook yet.

He glanced around him again and saw that he was alone. But he could smell the strong scent of Grant's always present cigar floating in the air.

Grant had stayed with him for a while and had left recently, so he knew he was no longer in el Hoyo del Diablo, but here… "He's with Jim leading him here…" He said, his heart thumping with hope.

He managed to pull himself into a sitting position, screaming – his voice echoing around him - his eyes screwed shut.

His jaw clenched hard, he tried to stay conscious as his vision was graying around the edges. "Oh boy…" he croaked, feeling nauseous.

His stomach heaving and he doubled up and retched to the side. As the nausea eased a little, he raised his head and looked around him.

He was sitting on sand, in the middle of a cave, not big, but circular with irregular walls forming layers of gray, dark gray and black rock - and the opening was more than 80 feet above him.

He grimaced.

Climbing up there with a dislocated shoulder would be very painful. Not to mention that with only one arm and one hand it would be very difficult and very dangerous too as he could fall and break his neck. But he had to do it if he wanted to get out from here.

Or not.

He looked upward and said, "If the President told Jim what happened to me in the pit, before I ended up here, he probably brought a long, long rope… and it would be long enough to reach me here. And, as Grant was here a few minutes ago, he'll tell Jim I'm here… "

So he decided to stay there, waiting for Jim to rescue him…. but he changed his mind when he heard a concert of rattlesnakes.

He spotted dozens of them coming out from holes in the walls, from crevices, from behind rocks in a teeming, deadly mass.

They lived here. He was in their territory. In mortal danger.

He stood, staggered for a few seconds, feeling his legs tremble beneath him and moved toward the closest wall – keeping watchful eyes on the rattlesnakes.

He looked upward at the top of the crevasse and said, "Artie old man, you have no other choice if you want to live than to climb up there."

Once on the surface he'd wait for his best friend in the shade of a rock, hoping he came quickly, with multiple canteens filled with water. After nearly drowning, dying of thirst in the desert would be a very idiotic death! He mused.

He sighed. "Okay…let's start with immobilizing your left arm and shoulder…" and gritting his teeth, he slowly took off his ragged yellow shirt.

He realized then that he was covered with bruises, abrasions and scrapes and the deeper ones were still bleeding a little. "

Once his arm was pressed tightly against his painful ribs thanks to the blood-stained fabric he had rolled on itself and knotted over his chest, he began the slow and long ascension of the closest wall wincing and grunting with each movement.

Fortunately for him its surface formed something like steps sometimes wide enough to put his feet on but most often he could only put the tip of his foot of those basaltic protrusions.

Little by little his mind got confused – and following his concussion a temporary memory loss dawned, grew and then settled, and when he reached the surface after six hours, the last thing he remembered was crossing the desert in search of the Aztec's treasure with Jim and Colonel Sanchez, professor Johnson, Slade and the others…

WWW

 _in the meantime, in the desert_

Soaked in sweat the same as his horse was, James West halted Blackjack and Vovó'hasé'haméhe on top of a slope and pulled out a map of the Arizona Territory from the inside pocket of his jacket.

He unfolded the map, resting it on the mane of his horse and then glanced at it. Then he looked out over the inhospitable landscape of the Sonoran desert. El hoyo del Diablo was there, in front of him, a few miles away, behind a line of big sharp gray and black rocks.

He couldn't miss it!

He looked down at his map again on which a black circle indicated a pit called la Boca del Infierno and – knowing deep in his heart that Artie was still alive – he said, "Don't worry buddy, I'm going to help you! I'm almost there now."

President Grant suddenly materialized next to Jim, sitting on a boulder – and spooked the horses which reared, neighing with fear.

Loving horses the ghost of the President pointed his smoking cigar at the Friesian stallion that Jim had controlled along with Vo, and said, "It's a beautiful horse you have there, Jim, what's his name?"

Startled, Jim replied, "Blackjack Sir… " He pointed at the Spotted Blanket Appaloosa horse and added, "And this is Artemus's horse. His Englishname is Spotted Horse. It's a Cheyenne horse." Then he sighed, trying to calm down his pounding heart. "You scared both of us, Mr. President."

Grant nodded. "I know, and I'm sorry about that, I can't warn people before appearing somewhere…" He pointed his long, fat cigar toward the north and said, "Artemus is not in la Boca del Infierno and not in El Hoyo del Diablo anymore. He's three miles away from here, in that direction. You need to hurry, he's going to need your help. He's injured and he has no water."

Frowning in deep worry, Jim asked the ghost, "What happened?"

Grant shook his head. "Long story and you don't have a single second to waste, Jim. I stayed at his side for hours when he was unconscious, and I have to go back to him now. He's going to need me."

On that, the ghost vanished.

Jim placed the map back in its place and hit the flanks of his black stallion and soon after the horse and Vo holding the long, long rope on his back were galloping toward the horizon.

WWW

Holding his right hand above his eyes for a meagre shadow Artemus looked around the barren landscape which lay around him, the sun blazing down on his unprotected skin. The air was shimmering with heat and it was so heavy that it was hard to breathe.

He was standing alone in the middle of a large, bowl-shaped hollow in the ground bordered on each side with steep slopes covered with sand, shrubs and gray rocks.

He frowned, puzzled, not recognizing the place. Where was he? Where were the wooden stakes with the skeletons and the skulls? It didn't look like the canyon of Montezuma's treasure.

He rasped, "Where am I?"

Feeling exhausted he sat on a big rock and a sharp pain suddenly thundered in his left shoulder. He yelped and then raised his eyebrows in total surprise as he realized that the upper joint of his arm was dislocated and that the said arm was immobilized against his torso with an improvised sling made with his ragged and bloodstained shirt. "A yellow shirt? But he wasn't wearing a yellow shirt but a gray, dirty one…."What?"

He noticed a pigtail there… and saw another one resting on his other shoulder. "What? Why am I wearing an Indian wig?" He should be disguised as an old guide, not as an Indian. He tried to remove it, but couldn't. It was stuck on his head.

His ribs hurt like hell and the left side of his head was throbbing too. He touched his temple with his fingertips – where it hurt a lot – finding a lump here and a patch of dried blood and he winced. "Ow! Ow!... What happened to me? I don't remember receiving a blow to the head…"

He gasped when he saw that his skin was deeply tanned – and that the plan of the water holes in the desert he had drawn on his left arm was gone. "What?"

Confused, he looked up at the top of the slopes expecting to see his horse, but he wasn't there. Had he fallen here after Lockpick had been frightened by a rattlesnake? Damn! He couldn't remember anything! Did someone attack him? Aztecs? Where was Jim? Where were the others? "Jim?" He called. But only the silence responded.

Sweat rolling down his face, he touched it with the back of his hand wanting to mop it up and found no fake beard there. "What? Why did I remove my disguise? He looked at his black pants and high black boots. They weren't those of the old guide he impersonated. He blinked, more than puzzled. "What the hell is happening here?"

He knew then. He had a concussion and memory loss.

He looked around him again. "It explains everything… Jim's probably searching for me and he'll find me, he always finds me."

Squinting his eyes against the assault of the merciless sun beating down on him Artie started climbing the closst steep slope of the large hole in the ground, every step jarring his injured ribs and dislocated shoulder while letting out moans, groans and grunts of pain.

He continued to walk. The infernal heat was pressing on his shoulders sapping every last ounce of energy he had from him.

He paused, breathless and dehydrated. The top of the depression wasn't far anymore, but climbing up there was like torture.

He sighed. "You can't just stop there and wait… Once up there Jim will locate you easily." He wiped his sweat soaked face with his hand, stinging with sunburn like the rest of his upper body and then ran his tongue over his parched and cracked lips. "Courage, Artie, you can do it," he breathed, "you can do it!" he said to work up his courage.

He re-started climbing the craggy incline, his feet sinking in the soft sand, thighs and calves burning with every step, slowing his progression.

Suddenly a rumbling voice said, "Come on Artemus! You can do it! and Jim is on his way. He should be here soon."

Stunned Artie stopped dead in his tracks as he spotted President Grant, higher up, a dozen feet from him, smoking his cigar at the foot of a group of saguaros. "Mr. President?"

Grant nodded. "Come here, Artemus, join me."

Moving upward, Artie frowned confused with bleary eyes. "Sir? What are you doing here? You should be in the White House, not here…" Then he snapped his fingers. "It's the concussion and the heat… You're an hallucination! You're not really here."

The President furrowed his brow in worry. "I'm a ghost Artemus, not a hallucination – you know that." Then as his ex-agent was moving closer he focused on the nasty lump on the side of his head, deeply bruised and covered in dried blood.

He had seen it before when he had kept vigil on Artemus in the cave and had hoped that he wouldn't suffer from confusion and temporary amnesia, following the blow to his head.

He was wrong, he thought.

Blinking slowly, drowsy, Artie rasped, "A ghost? But you're not dead Mr. President. Where's Jim? I could use some help…"

President Grant pointed his cigar to his right. "He's on his way here, Artemus. Come on, just a little more courage, you're almost there!"

Gathering what was left of his strength, Artie began to climb the steep slope again. Every step was a torture as jolts of agony ripped through his battered body.

Grant's apparition vanished.

His dislocated shoulder torturing him, Artemus finally reached the top of the hollow – panting, his legs trembling, and searing pain numbing his whole body.

He slumped on the sand, sitting there and didn't move.

But hearing the characteristic warning noise of a rattlesnake he stood up hurriedly and yelped as the snake moved to attack him.

He took a couple of steps back, stumbled against a big stone and collapsed on patch of stones. The pain was so intense that he screamed and lost consciousness.

WWW

Hearing a pain-filled scream Jim recognized his companion's voice and halted his horse and Vo stopped in his turn. "Artie!"

He rapidly dismounted Blackjack and ran at top speed toward a line of big saguaros. Once there, he spotted his best friend lying on the ground, rolled onto his side, moaning – as a rattlesnake was heading toward him, slaloming between stones.

He pulled out his gun and fired – a split second later a bullet beheaded the snake.

Then he dropped on his knees beside Artie, noticing his Indian wig. "Again with the Indian wig?" He said, puzzled wondering why Loveless had put it on his best friend's head again. He made a quick survey of his best friend and he looked terrible.

His eyes were sunken, his cracked lips were bleeding a little like his right eyebrow and he had a big lump on the left side of his head covered in dried blood. A makeshift sling was holding his right arm immobile against his torso; his right shoulder was dislocated and he had a series of nasty bruises and scrapes on top of his body – and a larger one on his chest, signaling cracked ribs.

He shook Artie's right arm, gently. "Artie, wake up! Wake up!" He saw the other man's eyes open slowly and smiled. "I found you, but I had help. Let me take care of you, buddy!"

His brown furrowing White Eagle reached out, grabbed a stone and threw it at the other man – missing his head by an inch.

Jim hurriedly moved back, an expression of pure astonishment on his face. "What the hell are you doing?" he asked.

His face showing hate, Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse moved onto his knees, grabbed another stone, a heavier one and lifting it, tried to smash Jim's head with it.– while muttering menacing things - in Cheyenne.

It was easy for Jim to neutralize his 'attacker' as he was very weak. He straddled Artie's legs and wrapped his hand around the other man's neck. "What's the matter with you?"

As Artie was now 'protesting' in Cheyenne, Jim realized that his partner had lost his memory due to a concussion and was now thinking he was an Indian – White Eagle.

He was now an enemy, he reflected.

Tbc.


	5. Act Four

**THE NIGHT OF THE GRAND OLD LADY**

 **By Andamogirl**

WWW

 **ACT FOUR**

Struggling, White Eagle tried to free himself from the rope tied around his wrists draining almost what little strength he had left while doing it.

Gritting his teeth he tried to ignore the searing pain which was radiating from his chest, dislocated shoulder and from his temple.

He was unable to resist when the white man pulled him upward and pushed him in front of him. He gave his enemy a black look and then said, "I will kill you white man!" in Cheyenne language.

Pointing at Blackjack and Vo Jim said, "Move!"

The Cheyenne forced his feet to move. One step at the time and he started staggering like a drunk, heading toward the black horse and the Appaloosa both waiting next to a boulder, in its shade.

He stopped and glanced around him, puzzled. Where was he? It didn't look like where his band lived in the Cheyenne-Arapaho reservation. How did he get here? And why?

He stopped, turned around – feeling dizzy - and glared at the white man who was pointing his gun at him. He knew that a group of Cheyenne had recently left the Indian Territory to steal some cattle from the farmers who had ranches at the border because the food sent by the white wasn't edible. It was rotten and full of worms, not even good for the dogs. They barely survived with the vegetables they grew and the rabbits they killed. They were hungry – and angry. The White men wanted to kill them all that way. But they wouldn't! They would survive! Was he one of those warriors? That white man who had captured him was he going to take him to the nearest fort so he could be hanged or bring him back to his band?"

He glanced at his clothes and frowned, puzzled. Why was he dressed like a white man?

Looking at Artie with his forehead creased in concern Jim said, "I can't take you to a doctor as you'll try to kill him - and as you can't understand English anymore, I'm going to ask American Knife to take care of you. I hope that you will recognize him."

Moving closer to Blackjack, White Eagle gathered his limited energy and tried to leap on the horse saddle – wanting to flee with it.

But the stallion moved to the side and White Eagle landed hard on the sandy ground.

Helping the other man to sit, Jim said, "Well, it looks like my new horse doesn't tolerate anyone else but me on his back, like my first Blackjack."

He took his canteen from his saddle, knelt beside Artemus and then poured water on the other man's scalded face. Then he brought the canteen to Artie's parched lips. "Take small sips, don't gulp, I don't want you to choke on the water, don't worry, I have enough of it. I have another canteen."

Blinking slowly, Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse didn't understand what the white man had just said but he was horribly thirsty.

He slowly emptied the canteen, moaning in pleasure, wetting his parched mouth and throat, soothing his cracking and sore lips, draining it of the last, precious drops of water it held.

Feeling a little better, the Cheyenne suddenly shoved Jim away from him, stood and ran in the opposite direction, zigzagging as a result of exhaustion.

He did not go very far before crumpling to the rocky ground. Frowning in worry Jim was at his best friend's side in a matter of seconds.

Crouching beside Artie, he gently rolled him onto his good side and then onto his back. Holding his best friend's hand he placed it on his chest and said "friend" in Cheyenne, "nésema'háahe". It was the only word he knew. Then in English he repeated, "Friend."

More than surprised White Eagle opened his eyes wide. "Nésema'háahe?" he let out his voice thick with strain and fatigue.

Jim nodded, smiling. "Yes, friend. You're my friend, you're my best friend and we're going back home, buddy," he said. He pulled his partner upright and leaned him against the horse's side. "Don't move!"

Confused and worn out White Eagle didn't move, trusting the white man – his enemy - inexplicably. He knew he'd do anything to help him, he mused.

Slowly, gently, one step at a time, Jim helped the other man walk toward Vo and then leaned Artie against his horse.

He took the long, long rope he had tied on the Cheyenne horse's back off and dropped it to the ground. "I don't need it anymore," he said.

He removed the ragged shirt holding Artemus arm immobile and winced in sympathy when the older man cried out in pain. "I'm sorry Artie. It's going to hurt, but I don't have any other choice. You can't ride with a dislocated shoulder." He placed his hands on the right position and suddenly applied pressure and pulled the shoulder back in place.

A split second later Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse screamed and everything went black.

In a flash Jim caught Artemus before he fell to the ground and hoisted his unconscious partner across the Cheyenne gelding.

He used his rope to tie the other man tightly, in order to keep him on the horse then he took his place behind the saddle.

He looked around him and then said, "Thank you for your help Mr. President."

WWW

 _In the Wanderer, two days later_

 _Fort Worth_

White Eagle woke up lying on a bed in a small wood-paneled room he didn't know but looked somehow strangely familiar, he realized.

Disoriented, he managed to sit up and noticed that he was dressed in a black form-fitting garment covering his midsection from the waist to the thighs. But when his muscles screamed in protest, he slumped back on the mattress – and saw that his left wrist was manacled to one of the posts of the narrow bed.

He immediately yanked at the metallic restraints, trying to get rid of them but failed, and only managed to scrape his wrist.

He was prisoner, yes, but the room he was in didn't look like a cell from a sheriff's office or from a fort. There was a window and a blind – it was more like a private room, he thought. And again it looked strangely familiar, like…home. Where was he? And where was the man who had captured him? He asked himself, his brow furrowed, intrigued.

Using his free hand he touched his left shoulder and sighed in relief. It was normal again but the pain was still there, stabbing. His ribs were tightly bandaged too and the pain was dull. He touched his throbbing temple and felt a bandage there.

He was watching the curved ceiling of the room, other questions flooding his mind when the door opened and he saw… another Cheyenne enter the small room.

He immediately recognized him and smiled. "American Knife! You're here, it's good to see you again!" He said in English, not realizing it as it was normal for him to speak that language. Then he frowned, puzzled. "But you look much older nésema'háahe, what happened to you?"

Smiling, the Medicine man closed the door behind him and then sat on the edge of the bed. He placed his hand on his blood-brother's chest in an affectionate and appeasing gesture. "It's good to see you again too, Artemus. I look older because I am an old man now, and you remember me the way I was more than ten years ago. You too are an old man, brother." He smiled again. "I see that you're speaking your native language again. It's promising progress. You should be yourself again in a matter of days."

Confused White Eagle asked, "What are you talking about Motšėškevé'ho'é?"

The Cheyenne was holding a key in his other hand and used it to unlock the manacles. "Following blows to your head you are suffering from a severe concussion, which has left you with a partial memory loss, for example you know who I am, but you didn't recognize James West when he rescued you in the Sonoran desert and by doing that saved your life. "

The Cheyenne warrior frowned. "James West? I know this name…"

American Knife nodded, "Good!" He smiled soothingly and added, "Your memory should return soon and you will be yourself again."

Still at a loss, White Eagle said, "The language I speak, is the language white men speak… you said that it's my native language, but it's impossible Motšėškevé'ho'é, I'm not a white man." He showed American Knife's his dark tanned hands. "Nátsėhéstahe, I'm a Cheyenne."

The Medicine man smiled. "Yes you are, Vóaxaa'ȯhvó'komaestse. You are a great warrior, with two eagle feathers, but you are also a white man called Artemus Gordon, a special agent of the US Secret Service. Your skin is usually white, but it has been artificially colored. It's a long story. If you don't believe me, brother; you can touch you hair."

Moving his hand to his right shoulder, Artemus realized that the long pigtail was gone. Then he lifted it and touched his hair, which was short and wavy, not Cheyenne-like. "I had long hair… What happened?" He asked, even more troubled.

The medicine man replied, "You were wearing a wig. It's a long story."

Barely believing it, White Eagle said, "I'm a white man…." He rubbed his sore wrist and asked, "Why was I prisoner?"

The Cheyenne medicine man shook his head. "You never were a prisoner, Artemus. You were restrained for your own safety. James did it because he didn't know how you would react after you woke up. And for his own safety too, as you tried to kill him in the desert."

Furrowing his brow, White Eagle said, "I remember that part… with a man dressed in blue, but if I know his name, I don't remember him, American Knife, only his name. All the things I remember are all related to my life as a Cheyenne, with my Cheyenne band – when you were younger."

Placing his hand on Artemus's he said, "Your memory will come back with time and you will easily adapt to your new situation in the meantime. You have the talent to adapt to any situation."

There was a knock at the door and it opened two seconds later, revealing James West, his brow barred with lines of worry. "You alright?" He asked his partner.

White Eagle touched his aching ribs and winced. The pain was coming back, slowly. "Not yet. Thank you for saving my life," he said.

Leaning against the doorframe, Jim replied, "We've been saving each other's lives for almost 20 years, Artie. I stopped counting after 100. And you're welcome."

Surprised to be called that, White Eagle lifted his eyebrows. "Artie?"

Moving closer, Jim smiled. "Artie is short for Artemus, and you call me Jim, Jim is short for James. But I can call you White Eagle if you want."

Nodding, Artemus said, "Yes, it's my name. I'm White Eagle." He sighed, frustrated. "I still don't remember you. It's an odd thing, because you are very important to me, I know that."

Sitting on a stool Jim said, "And you're important to me, Artie. Don't worry buddy. You will get your ol' noggin' back. It could happen in five minutes or in five weeks or in five months. Temporary memory losses are unpredictable things. You have to be patient. What is important is you are back home, safe and sound – except the memory loss part - and back at my side."

Glancing around him, White Eagle asked, "Is this place my home?" Then he rubbed his dark circled and bloodshot eyes and yawned.

Nodding, Jim gestured delineating the compartment and on a larger scale, the train. "Yes, the Wanderer, our train, is our home."

Looking around him again, surprised, White Eagle said, "I'm on a train?" Looking lost, he shook his head. "I don't remember this place… but find it familiar. But I don't want to stay here. I want to go to the Cheyenne settlement. It's the only home I know…" Ignoring Jim's hurtful look, he looked at American Knife. "Can I come with you Motšėškevé'ho'é?" He asked before yawning again.

The Cheyenne pulled out a terracotta pot from the bag he wore over his shoulder and removed the lid, revealing a green and smelly ointment. "No, you can't Artemus, because it's not a good idea. Staying here in this train with James will help you to remember who you are and where you belong, brother. And it's not with the Cheyenne, even if you are a Cheyenne warrior. Foremost you are a special agent working for the Government, like James here who is your partner and best friend – and blood brother." Seeing Artemus's surprised look he added, It's another long story."

He started spreading the ointment on Artie's bruises making the other man wince and said. "With this ointment those bruises will vanish in a matter of hours." He smiled and said, trying to relax his blood-brother. "You look like a multicolored appaloosa, Artemus."

Closing his tired eyes, as he yielded to fatigue, White Eagle moved onto his back. "Ar-te-mus, that's a strange name…" he slurred feeling his whole body going numb.

Motšėškevé'ho'é nodded. "Tȧ-héovēšėstse! Go lie down!" And he watched Artemus doing just that and drifting off to sleep.

Jim chuckled and said, "I always thought that Artemus was a strange name." Then he furrowed his brow in concern and asked American Knife. "Is he going to be alright?"

The medicine man nodded. "Yes, with time and plenty of rest." He unrolled the bandage wrapped around Artie's head and inspected the stitched gash at his temple, finding a large portion of hair removed around it. "He won't like that." Then nodding in appreciation, he said, "You did a good job, James."

Smiling Jim said, "Artie won't be happy to see that I shaved his skull here." He paused. "He's quite fond of his hair, but I had no other choice if I wanted to treat his wound correctly."

American Knife noticed that a little blood was oozing through the neat stiches. From his bag he pulled out a small glass bottle filled with a dark and thick liquid and said, "It's a decoction of plants. It's a very powerful antiseptic and it also has healing properties." He poured some on Artie's wound and on his scrapes where it solidified in a matter of seconds.

He then wrapped Artie's head in a clean cloth and then said, "I have to go now. I must go back to my band. My people need me." He stood and took his bag looking down at the sleeping man, "I did what I could to help him, now it's up to you to continue doing it, James. I'm sure that you'll find a way to accelerate his healing." And he reached out.

Shaking American's Knife hand, Jim said, "Thank you for your help, American Knife. It was good to see you again. When all of this is over, Artie and I we'll come to see you."

The Cheyenne smiled. "I know that you will. " He looked down at Artemus one last time. "Tell him goodbye for me and take care of him. He's an extraordinary man."

Jim smiled. "I will – and I know that."

The Medicine Man left the compartment and then the Wanderer. Two cavalry soldiers waited for him on each side of his horse – ready to bring him back to the Cheyenne-Arapaho reservation located a dozen miles from the railroad track.

Once Jim had left the room in his turn, President Grant materialized next to Artemus's bed. He smiled and said, "I knew that you would survive, son."

Then he vanished.

WWW

 _The next morning, Little Rock railroad station_

 _Artemus's sleeping compartment,_

White Eagle looked at his reflection in the big mirror hanging behind the door of his sleeping compartment, eyes wide and shocked, barely recognizing himself. "I look old and… I've put on some weight," he said, touching his face.

His eyes twinkling with scoff, Jim chuckled. "Yes you have. That's because you remember yourself the way you looked like 15 years ago when you became American Knife's blood brother and a Cheyenne. You changed with the passing years – and me too, unfortunately, that's life."

Still frowning White Eagle glanced at his white man's clothes, not feeling comfortable in them and not 'himself' in them too.

He was wearing a bi-colored jacket, tan and brown, fringed on the front, a white shirt, a black ribbon tie, a black waistcoat, brown pants and black boots. He had a brown gunbelt too holding a silver Colt with a white handle. He turned toward Jim who was observing him from the narrow walkway, holding a dark brown hat. "It's not me, here, in the mirror."

The younger man nodded. "Yes, it's you, Artie. But you're not Artemus Gordon in your head - yet. But wearing these clothes – your clothes - could trigger the unblocking of your memory, and that's why too we're going out to eat and drink in a saloon."

The Cheyenne was surprised. "A saloon? Why?"

Putting his black hat on his head, Jim responded, "Because you love saloons Artie, I mean White Eagle – and especially love those enormous juicy steaks accompanied by roasted potatoes and glasses of beer that we find in saloons… and of course you love the lovely girls serving the orders at the tables and of course you love the dancing girls too."

Looking again at his reflection in the mirror, he said, "I… I'm lost. I don't know who I am… Not a complete Cheyenne, not a complete white m an."

Padding inside the small room, Jim said, "I know, and I understand what you feel. But it won't last. One day, you'll be back, whole. But for now, let's go, let's have some fun!" then he gave Artie his hat. "Now you're perfect. Let's go!"

WWW

 _Outside, in the street_

Michelito Loveless sitting in his coach (a French berline), watched Jim West and Artemus Gordon leave their train, his eyes wide open in total disbelief.

He shook his head, still incredulous. "I just can't believe it. That man has more lives than a hundred cats gathered together!" he said.

The older agent of the Secret Service had escaped la Boca del Infierno and survived in El Hoyo del Diablo and the deadly Sonoran desert – where his partner had found him and rescued him. He knew now where West had gone before he could lure him in his last trap.

In order to capture him, he had decided to track the Wanderer here. It had been easy. The train did not go unnoticed. Artemus Gordon was right when he had told him, 'Jim always knows where I am when I am in danger, and he saves my life each time,' he mused and smiling cruelly he continued his reflection: as each of his elaborate plans to get rid of those two men had failed since he had met them - he decided to use a more brutal approach to kill them before being attacked and devoured inside by ulcers brought on by anger and frustration at having the two agents constantly thwarting his schemes - and later die from them like his father did. "No way," he said.

He would command his men to shoot them on sight. It wasn't creative – and it would hurt his artistic sense, and he couldn't make them suffer and enjoy their last moments too, but that kind of death had a big advantage, it was final.

They wouldn't escape death this time.

He watched the two men head towards the main street and enter a saloon. "Enjoy your last evening together, gentlemen," he said.

WWW

 _Gold Dice saloon_

Feeling out of place in the saloon and wary that white men could shoot him on sight, White Eagle hesitated to sit beside Jim.

Patting the empty chair sitting beside him Jim said, "Don't worry, no one here thinks that you're an Indian, just a deeply tanned white man, so relax buddy, and take a seat."

The Cheyenne complied. Then he looked around him with both curiosity – and dejà-vu. The saloon was crowded with cowboys and the showgirls were dancing the French cancan on the stage. A group of men were standing behind the musicians cheering and whistling. People were talking loudly and laughing out loud. They were playing poker while smoking cigars and cigarettes, drinking beer and whisky. Others were reading newspapers or chatting with the very little-dressed waitresses…"I like it here…" He said, as images of multiple saloons he had spent some time in surfaced in his mind. "It's so familiar… It's so familiar that I could sit at the piano over there and play music to entertain people…" He sighed, shaking his head in confusion. "It's so strange… "

Happy to hear that, Jim said, "Well I was right. Bringing you here is going to help you recover your missing memory Artie."

The older man nodded. "Yes you were… oh!" And he couldn't help but to look up and down at the leggy, scantily-clad young woman heading toward Jim and him, holding a tray filled with empty glasses – and zeroed on her opulent breasts half-hidden behind a black corset exaggerating the bust and hips. He smiled and let out, "Ooh boy!"

His Artie wasn't far away Jim realized with pleasure. "That's an expression Artemus loves to use." Then he looked up at the redhead. "Two beers, please," he said.

Noticing that the older man sitting in front of her had his chocolate eyes riveted on her barely hidden breasts, she smiled seductively and said, "My name is Lola. I finish my service at 6 o'clock. I have a room in the hotel in front of the saloon, the Silver Star, room 4. If you're interested…"

Suddenly a heavy, bearded man with a broken nose and a scarred face, looking displeased grabbed Lola's arm and groaned, "I heard you! I already told you not to solicit clients here! I don't want to have any problems with the sheriff. You know he doesn't tolerate that kind of thing in saloons…"

She shook her head. "Harry, I didn't…"

She didn't finish her sentence as the saloon owner slapped her, hard, so hard that she fell to the ground and started crying, blood trickling from her nose.

In a flash Artemus leaped from his chair and all his muscles tensed, he brutally shoved the other man away and then shouted, "Get your hands off of her!" and then he added coldly, "Do that again and you'll regret it hávėsévéné! (ugly face)."

The bearded man held up his hands with a sly smile. "Hold on! Easy old timer, don't be angry because of her, she's not worth it! She's just a little brainless waitress…" He frowned, intrigued and asked, "What? How did you call me? It sounds like Indian language…"

Before Artie could reveal he was a Cheyenne warrior and find himself with thirty revolvers pointed at him and draw his own gun in response, Jim intervened, "No it's not. It's a Polish insult, my best friend's mom iwas born in Poland," he half-lied. "Does my friend look like an Indian to you?"

The bar owner shook his head. "No." Then he looked down at Lola who was still crying and said, "Stop crying! Shut up! You are bothering everyone here:" And he kicked her. "Go back to work! I'm not paying you for doing nothing!"

Lola yelped and new tears rolled down her already bruising face.

His eyes flashing and then darkening with boiling anger Artemus hit the other man square on the jaw. The Gold Dice saloon owner collapsed to the floor with a thump, knocked out.

The two bulky men sitting at the next table stood up. "What's happening here?" The blond one, asked. Tightening his fists, he added; "You want to fight old man?"

In a flash Artie un-holstered his gun and in a swift movement found himself in front of the cowboy, only a few inches separating them.

His face like granite, his jaw set, Artemus placed the mouth of his . 45 Colt against the blond's forehead. "Sit down before I do things that I wouldn't regret later, and show some respect to your elders." The cowboy took a step back and sat down at his place. "Good! You just avoided being seriously hurt, young man."

Beaming Jim said, "You're back! Artie!" Then he left his chair and helped Lola to stand. He offered her his handkerchief. "Oh yes! Artemus Gordon is back!"

Lola smiled, drying her tears and mopped the blood from her face with the piece of cloth. She touched her nose and winced. "It's not broken… but that was close," she said. "Thank you." She glanced at her boss still passed out on the wooden floor and then added, "I'm going to bring your beers… They're on me. It's the least I can do to thank you." She kissed Artie's cheek and then left.

Sitting back in his chair, Jim grinned and then said, "When I came here with you, you were White Eagle and now I'm sitting next to my partner, Artemus Gordon, the white knight, defender of the widow and orphan and of women in general."

Holstering his gun, Artemus smiled. "White knight? Rather white Cheyenne. But pieces of my memory are still missing…" And he sank onto his chair, rubbing his aching temples. Waves of memories were rushing into his mind in a disorderly fashion and he moaned in pain.

His poor head was pounding.

Placing a hand on Artemus's shoulder Jim said, pressing it warmly, "Let's enjoy our beers and then we'll head back to the Wanderer to find out what's still missing."

Glancing at the passed-out man lying at his feet on the dusty floor, Artie said, "I should have hit him more than once..."

Patting his best friend's back Jim said, "I'm proud of you. You knocked him out with a single punch. The boxing training that I made you take has served you well, bravo!"

Artie smiled and said, "But I still have some weight to lose."

Tbc.


	6. Tag

**THE NIGHT OF THE GRAND OLD LADY**

 **By Andamogirl**

WWW

 **TAG**

 _Much later, at night_

The two special agents of the Secret Service were approaching the Wanderer, walking side by side on the empty platform lit by the full moon, remembering how they had met at the end of the war, when Grover and Berkley suddenly came out from behind a pile of firewood.

Drawing their guns Loveless's henchmen aimed at Jim and Artemus and pulled the trigger before the two other men could do anything.

Even Jim who could shoot faster than his shadow had no time to draw his gun.

Hit first in his right shoulder Artie yelped and was propelled backward against one of the pillars supporting the porch. He collapsed to a kneeling position and then his chest exploded in a wave of agonizing pain as a second bullet caught him between his hip and ribcage.

He crumpled to the ground with a ragged cry as a white-hot wave of pain swept through his body. Then he curled into himself his face twisted into a grimace, placing his shaking hands on his stomach to keep pressure on the bullet wound he was bleeding out from.

Jim received a bullet in his stomach and then one in his throat. He let out a choking gasp in a spray of blood as the breath was knocked out of him and he fell forward, collapsing on top of his partner.

Michelito Loveless left his carriage as the sound of the gunshots was echoing in the deserted railway station, and grinning like the madman he was, he rapidly joined his two men who were ready to finish their victims, both mortally wounded, half-dead.

Cackling in glee, using his foot, the short man rolled both Jim and Artemus onto their backs taking great delight seeing their faces twisted in agony.

He beamed. "It's such a wonderful sight!" He said. "I should have done that a long time ago. It would have saved me a lot of effort, frustration and anger – and money."

He crouched beside Jim who had clamped his hands on his throat in an effort to stop the bleeding, blood leaking from between his shaking fingers and dripping to the platform. "Goodbye, Mr. West, I won't miss you. My father up there is probably enjoying the view, delighted to see the great James West is drowning in his own blood." He moved toward Artemus finding the other man gasping for breath, convulsing on the ground, coughing blood and said, "Goodbye Mr. Gordon, it looks like your extraordinary luck has changed. See? You're dying and no one will save you this time. I'm not going to miss you either."

In a last effort Artie, forehead beaded with sweat, looked at Jim and said, "Jim… I…remember everything now. It's me… Arte-Artemus." He grasped Jim's wrist loosely with blood-soaked fingers. "I'm back… whole," Then he closed his eyes and croaked, "Kind of…hard to breathe." He coughed and blood flooded his mouth. He spat on Loveless - eliciting a gasp of disgust from the short man and half-smiled. But it faded a couple of seconds later as he could feel his body shutting down. His vision went gray and then black. He went slack and lost consciousness breathing shakily.

His pale face contorted into a mask of pain, Jim was unable to talk so he just smiled weakly and blood frothing at the corner of his mouth, he mouthed, "See you in the afterlife". His eyes became unfocused and glassy and his body went limp.

Loveless Jr. stood up and watched the two men in their agony for a moment, bleeding out and inside as well, absolutely thrilled.

Then he looked up at his goons and nodded giving them the signal. "With a bullet going through their heads, I'd be sure that they're dead", he said. He took a couple of steps back – to avoid being sprinkled with blood and brains, and to have a better view of the execution. "Kill them!"

They two henchmen pointed their guns at the dying men, aiming at their heads and fired.

Suddenly something extraordinary happened, an invisible force stopped the bullets mid-flight and they stayed there, immobile, frozen in space at a few inches from their targets, floating in the air.

The two gunslingers exchanged an incredulous look, then scared by what they were witnessing, something supernatural, they ran away, whimpering in terror, without turning around.

Michelito Loveless gasped and moved back, blanching. "That's impossible", he said, more stunned than frightened by what had just happened.

President Grant suddenly 'uncloaked' himself and pointed his cigar at the ground. The bullets immediately dropped down on top of Jim and Artemus's barely mobile chests.

The blond man's eyes grew huge and he took a couple of steps back, looking at the 'apparition' in terror. "Pre-president Grant? But-but you're dead! You've been dead for 10 years!" he said, his voice trembling in time with his body.

Ulysses S. Grant smiled. "Really? That explains why I'm a ghost then." Then he glared at Loveless. "And I'm a very angry ghost!" Using his cigar he made an intricate gesture and Loveless Jr. found himself paralyzed and mute. "The effects of the paralysis should vanish within a few hours and by then you'll be in the rolling cell of the Wanderer heading to Washington" he said.

He then knelt beside Artemus. The other man was barely alive, he was deathly pale and his eyes almost lifeless were looking straight at him. "It's going to be alright son," he reassured the other man.

He placed his hand on Artie's bloodied chest and then using his cigar again he made another gesture and his wounds vanished.

He repeated the action with Jim right after.

He grinned, "A very powerful ghost." He stood up and smiled before smoking his cigar. "What are you waiting for? Stand up, gentlemen!"

Both Jim and Artie complied and surveyed their own bodies. They were both covered in blood but no wound could be seen.

Both awestruck, the two men then saw that Loveless was paralyzed and were even more amazed.

Blinking, still wonderstruck, Jim then looked at the dead POTUS. "Thank you, Sir. But I thought you had limited powers… were immaterial and couldn't touch people."

Grant nodded. "Let's say that when I saw what Loveless had planned for you, I asked for temporary unlimited powers and I was 'granted' them – easily, as my intervention was written. Your hour hadn't come, and with the help of God, I had to save you, it was written." Then he puffed on his cigar, very pleased.

It was Artie's turn to look at Grant. "Thank you very much Mr. President, you saved our lives. But… something puzzles me, why are you still here, in this world, Sir?"

The ghost chuckled and said, "And not in heaven already? Well, when I was still alive, I was too busy to do all the things I dreamt to do, so when I died, I decided to stay here. I wanted to visit the whole world before I go up there… and I wanted to visit old 'living' friends too, and meet the most interesting men and women in the world, politicians, military officers, artists, writers, etc, so I lingered here since my death, making myself visible or not.. You were the last persons on my list to visit before I go. I helped you to find each other and I saved your lives. I can go happy, now. You're together again and both safe and sound. Now it's time for me to leave that in-between existence."

His face wet with tears, Artemus reached out. "Bon voyage, Sir," he said. "And thank you very much, for everything."

The two men shook hands. "We'll see each other again, Artemus, as late as possible, but in the meantime, take care of you and of Jim, promise me."

Artie was crying softly now. "I promise." Then he lunged forward and wrapped the 'solid' ghost up in a tight hug, and after a couple of sobs, he parted from Grant.

Ulysses S. Grant and Jim shook hands in their turn. "Goodbye, Jim, take care of yourself – and take care of Artemus too, he's a trouble magnet – and he's one of a kind." He paused and added, "And promise me to stay together."

The two agents nodded and both said, "We promise."

Jim asked, it was you in my sleeping compartment right? It wasn't a dream, right? That's why I could smell your cigar…"

President Grant nodded, "Yes it was me. I enjoyed our conversation."

Upset Artie said, "I'd have loved to talk to you too Sir, but you left when I woke up… But I could feel your 'presence' at my side…"

Grant nodded. "I'm sorry Artemus. But I had to leave and 'visit' Julia. She had 'called' me." He took a step back and said, "Goodbye, gentlemen. To the next time." Then he became insubstantial, translucent and then, finally transparent.

He was gone – definitively.

Pale, shaking, Artie swayed on his legs, on the verge of collapsing to the ground, both exhausted physically and emotionally – he had lost his surrogate father twice.

Knowing in what emotional turmoil his best friend was, Jim carefully wrapped the other man in his arms, hugging him, holding him upright at the same time. "I'm right here, Artie," he said and held Artie tight, patting his back, comforting him. "He's now in a better world." He paused as Artemus let out a strangled sob. "We're together and we'll stay together watching over each other like we promised the President. Now let's go home, Artie." He glanced at Loveless as immobile as a statue. "But first we need to find a way to bring our prisoner to the Wanderer. Do you have an idea?"

Pointing at Loveless's carriage, Artie said, "I have."

WWW

 _Five days later, on the Wanderer_

 _Washington D.C._

Smiling, Artemus opened the wooden case containing his Stradivarius. "I hope I still remember how to play," he said, with a chuckle.

Sitting on the couch reading the Washington Gazette, Jim said, "Even if you don't, you can learn to play any instrument in a matter of days – no, correction, hours."

Reaching out, Artie pulled the violin out of its case and touched the instrument reverently. He pinched the strings and let out a long contented sigh. "So beautiful! So fantastic! He said, rapt in wonder. Then he added, "It's so old that I'm afraid of damaging it as soon as I touch it."

Looking at his partner, Jim replied, "You shouldn't, this violin dates from 1710 and survived until now, you won't break it, buddy – and I'm sure that you'll take a great care of it."

Placing the Stradivarius on top of his shoulder and against the side of his head, Artie said, "It's such a wonderful gift, Jim, thank you very much. I do not know how to thank you."

Smiling Jim replied, "It was a pleasure and you can thank me playing it, Artie. The one you had before was broken when those two men moved your belongings into the train when we got settled into the Wanderer again. If I hadn't stopped you from doing it, you would have strangled them one after the other!"

Still very upset at the loss of his beloved violin, Artie groaned, "And they would have deserved to die!"

Jim smiled soothingly. "You're exaggerating." He paused and then added, "We couldn't stay without a violin, you love to play and I love to hear you play. You were so sad and so angry to have lost your violin that I decided to offer you a new one. When I heard from a friend of mine, who plays piano at the Washington Philharmonic Orchestra that a Stradivarius had been pawned at a pawnbroker here in Washington, and that nobody had taken it back after a year, I bought it to offer it to you. And voilà! You have it."

Grinning, overjoyed, Artie said, "Yes, and thank you again." Then he plucked at the strings, tightening them until they sounded right. He frowned realizing something, "You have a friend playing the piano at the WPO? Why is this the first time I heard about the man?"

Jim shook his head. "It's not a man, it's a woman."

Sending Jim a black look, Artie said, "Ah… that explains everything. It's not the first time you've 'hidden' women from me, to keep them for yourself… and let me refresh your memory, Jim. You're the one married here, with two lovely children, I'm single and have no child…"

Crossing his arms over his chest in an interrogative way, Jim replied, "Are you sure of that? You were quite a seducer in the past… and you slept with many women… You could be the father of many children, Artie, who knows?"

Realizing that Jim could be right, Artemus said, "You know what? I actually never thought about that… You could be right, or not. Who knows? But I'd like to be a dad one day… "

Jim smiled. "You'll be a great dad Artie."

The telegraph key suddenly came to life and Jim acknowledged the transmission before Artie and he heard the message.

Placing the precious violin under his arm Artie translated the morse code in time with the staccato of the telegraph key, "Michelito Loveless… escaped… during transfer to federal court… New assignment… find him… and put him behind bars again, ASAP. Signed Robert T. Malone…. Director of the Secret Service." He heaved a long resigned sigh. "Why am I not surprised Loveless escaped? Like father like son. We arrested Loveless Sr. a dozen times and he escaped each time – and then he died. And his son took over, and he's a lot worse than him!"

Reaching out toward the coffee table, Jim took hold of his steaming mug of coffee and said, "I'm sure that he'll find us before we find him."

Using his free hand to pick up his mug filled with Jim's 'passable' coffee, he said, "But he'll take his time, he needs to find something 'creative' to get rid of us. And we are in no hurry to see him again," he said. And then he took a sip.

The older man headed toward the dresser, settled both the violin and his mug on the table and took the carafe of whiskey sitting there. He poured the liquor into two glasses then joined his best friend on the couch. "I'd like to propose a toast," he said. He gave Jim a glass of liquor and raised his. "To Ulysses S. Grant, the best President of the United States, ever!"

Smiling, Jim raised his glass too. "To Ulysses S. Grant, the man who saved us. Without him, we'd be both dead and buried now," he added.

They downed the whiskey in one gulp.

Suddenly realizing something Jim snapped his fingers. "I knew I had forgotten something! A postman brought a packet for you. I put it in your room."

Frowning Artemus said, "What? It could be a bomb! Who sent it to me?"

Shaking his head, Jim replied, "It didn't explode so it's not a bomb. The name of the sender is not on the packet, but I know who he is."

Intrigued, Artie stood and left the room. He came back a couple of minutes later to the parlor car holding a blood-stained dress in his arms.

He sighed. "Loveless!"

Jim nodded. "Yes, Loveless. You see it wasn't lost." He smiled. "And with it, you'll be able to be the grand old lady of the Secret Service again - Artemis Gordon – you just need to find a good cleaning product to remove the blood stains and your dress will be like new."

Holding the dress against his frame, Artie said, "I have the right product to remove all stains, including blood stains." He paused, smiled playfully and asked, "What about going to eat a good steak in the Gold Dice saloon in good company Jim?"

Guessing what his companion had in mind, Jim chuckled and replied, "Good idea Artie! I'd be delighted to go there with Miss Artemis McAllister."

The end


End file.
